Without a Cowl
by I am the Unicorn
Summary: In which a mistake is made, the Joker discovers Batman’s true identity, and things take a general turn for the worst. Joker/Batman. Post-TDK universe. Ongoing.
1. Chapter 1

* * *

_In which a mistake is made, the Joker discovers Batman's true identity, and things take a general turn for the worst. Joker/Batman pairing. Post-TDK universe. Ongoing._

Without a Cowl

I

A Prologue

* * *

Of course, it was only a matter of time that the Joker slipped out of Arkham Asylum's iron-tight grasp. It had taken quite a while: seven months, to be specific. In the end, the spontaneous plan he contrived had unfolded both marvelously and flawlessly.

As always.

It didn't take much to escape. Just a bit of manipulation, a good mind fuck here and there, maybe a _couple _hand-crafted knives and hey! There he was, as free as a bird, walking the poverty-ridden streets of Gotham, ready to wreak havoc upon its every orifice once more.

It was almost disappointingly simple. Mere child's play, to the convoluted mind of the Joker.

During his time in captivity, he'd been well aware of the fact that he could easily extricate himself from his situation. Unfortunately, despite the sheer boredom eating him from the inside out, he had to wait. Of all the virtues he lacked, patience, thankfully, was not one of them.

All he wanted was for the people of Gotham to delude themselves into thinking that he was gone for good; for them to regain the sense of security they had lost months prior. The longer he waited, the more secure Gothemites would become their humbled little homes, and, conclusively, the more havoc he would wreak upon his return. All that he needed to do was bide his time and be patient- not for too long, though - he didn't want to give people time to forget about him.

Daily life in Arkham Asylum proved to be incredibly, undeniably monotonous. There was nothing to do but whittle away the minutes, hours, and days by staring blankly at the same four walls of his padded cell. Scaring off one jumpy, overly-analytic psychologist after the other seemed to prove itself extremely amusing as well, in the Joker's eyes. Throw a couple of laughs, fix them with a grin, and off towards the hills they ran. But even with all of the entertainment he made for himself, he found himself irritated a good portion of the time. In order for him to cohabitate nicely with all of the other _'_kiddies_'_ of Arkham, he needed more of a... "think-happy" environment, as he'd liked to call it. But the nurses and doctors denied him of that as well.

Alas; despite the occasional sour mood, all was good in the world. As expected, the dust (kicked up after his previous tirade) had settled during that somewhat extended lapse of time. Gotham's citizens began to return to their everyday routines and as did Gotham's criminals. The crime rate, GCN reported on those days where the Joker was allowed a little bit of TV time, was steadily climbing back up. Conversely, the mortality rate was dropping.

Mike Engal didn't hesitate to note that, in his opinion, the heightened crime rate was partially due to Batman's disappearance.

Which... was quite magical. Unforeseen, surprisingly - but magical all the same. It saddened him to a degree, to know that his nemesis would throw in the towel so easily. That, and it confounded him as well. How unlike the mulish Batman to give up so easily!

But at least he knew that the Bat wasn't gallivanting after anyone else during his absence. The police seemed to be in quite a tizzy over the matter - which, he supposed, could work to his advantage in the long run.

All the same, the Joker wasn't about to stand idle and allow the Batman to quit so very early on in the game. Not without a fight, anyway. This was only just the beginning- their fun was very, very far from over, and the Joker had a good feeling that Batman knew this as well, wherever he was hiding. It was simply the start of an entirely new chapter of their story. Who knew what it would bring?

Well, the Joker wasn't quite sure of that just yet. But he did know that from this point on, things would only escalate_._

* * *

**Author's Note:**

_Rating may go up, depending on how this pans out._

All reviews are appreciated. :)


	2. Chapter 2

* * *

_In which a mistake is made, the Joker discovers Batman's true identity, and things take a general turn for the worst. Joker/Batman pairing. Post-TDK universe. Ongoing._

Without a Cowl

Chapter II

* * *

From a high-placed balcony overlooking the Narrows, a darkened silhouette could be seen, upper body hunched over a russet iron grate. The figure squinted down upon the scenery below, eyes subjugated to the acidic yellow glow of street lamps illuminating the filthy, deserted sidewalks. The air was heavy; smelling of hot garbage juice, noxious fumes, and the constantly lingering scent of sogginess- a stench that never seemed to ebb, even if there was no rain for weeks_._ It was one of many things that someone grew accustomed to, living in this part of town. The sickening scent never dissipated; it was everywhere, all around you, lurking in every gutter, in every nook and cranny. Just like the obscene poverty: you couldn't escape it.

The neighborhood below was almost peculiarly quiet; as if a dark secret was known amongst all of its residents, and they were terrified that if any noise were to be made, if anyone daredto take a breath, the secret would simply spew from their unwilling mouths like vomit. Even at this time of the morning, when it was so dark that time was no longer of significance, there would be at least be one decrepit, homeless person rummaging through the metal garbage bins lining the alleyways. Or maybe a couple of cats.

However, there was nothing.

Just like any large city, police sirens could be heard wailing in the distance, crying in a high-pitched falsettos. The sound rung in his ears, igniting a small fire of glee in his gut that would probably be difficult to douse. Police vehicles both excited and perplexed him, no matter how far away they were. When their sirens were blaring, it meant that catastrophe was undoubtedly afoot (which was always a good thing, in his opinion). That, and the sleek, almost sharp build of them; the stark black and white paint jobs; the fluorescent, seizure-inducing strobe lights… everything about them was designed to maintain order.

For example.

When someone was driving and managed to catch a glimpse of a police car concealed beneath some big, ambiguous building's shadow, what did that someone do, whether or not there was a policeman even in said car?

Well, they slowed down. They got anxious. Nervous_, _even.

To see something as simple as a _car _being used as a device of control astounded him.

Society was really whipped, wasn't it?

Sadly to say, the Joker hadn't been peering over the edge of his newest hideout's balcony to enjoy the scenery, and most certainly not to breath in the 'fresh air.'

With his elbows resting upon the railing and pallid-faced visage hanging over the edge of oblivion, he'd been toying with… well, ideas.

He wasn't too keen on how he'd go about making heads turn. With such an ample supply of ideas to choose from, it was difficult to decide how to plunge Gotham even further into the depths of despair. And at the rate Gotham was falling to pieces, the crime-ravaged city would be beyond saving; fragmented beyond repair.

And oh, how he wanted to be the one who placed that final straw that broke the proverbial camel's back.

Of course, the painted man wasn't terribly choosy about how to bring about this chaos and discord. Anything destructive worked perfectly fine, in his mind. A couple tastefully-placed explosions here, some blood and gore there… the Joker saw himself as a pretty easy-to-please kind of guy.

But if only it were that simple.

See, even if he did blow up a couple of buildings and sliced a couple people up, he would still need to get the goddamn Bat'shead to turn, too.

Killing people would definitely grab the Batman's attention, he had no doubtabout that. But how much killing would it take for the incognito hero to officially take back his mantle as Gotham's Dark Knight?

That'swhat would take a bit more deliberation. The Bat was a stubborn one, the Joker had learned that.

Like everything else in this world, the solution to the problem would inevitably come to him.

But he assumed that, for the time being, it would be best to take baby steps at a time. After all, he was still a bit antsy, having spent all that time cooped up in Arkham doing absolutely nothing... It wouldn't kill anyone if he tried to get the ball rolling.

The Joker's besmirched lips twisted upwards as he giggled to himself, pushing himself from the balcony and turning his back on the broken city.

_Or would it?_

* * *

Stanley Kale had gone to Gotham City Bank to withdraw enough money to take his family out for a nice dinner … something he didn't do all that often. He had become frugal, in his old age. Saving money was his top priority, especially in times like this. He'd been in deep with credit card companies for a long time, and it became worse after he first got married. As it turned out, footing the bill for a wedding wasn't the most ideal way to get out of debt. It was difficult to support more than himself at first, what with his low-paying job and his soon-to-be-born child.

After his daughter was born, he'd gotten a promotion and a significant raise as well. He'd been able to pay off his debts after hours of working overtime and had also managed to support his family. Needless to say, he'd learned how to handle his money properly. And thanks to that, they now lived happily in their middle-class , two-story home, despite its uncomfortably close proximity to the Narrows.

It was his wife's birthday today, and he knew that she deserved a night to preened and waited on. He'd wanted the evening to be perfect.

But as he walked up to the cashier, handing her his withdrawal slip, there was a deafening crash behind him that made his heart plummet somewhere around his ankles. People cried out in shock as a plume of dust rose into the air. The electricity in the overhead lights on the ceiling snapped and popped, glittering balls of electricity cascading through the air.

A dead silence fell as small rocks and rubble rolled across the floor.

"_Hellooo_, everyone." Groused a terribly familiar voice- a voice that once had been broadcasted over all of the televisions in Gotham. "This is a robbery. So… would you all puh-lease, ah, get on the goddamn floor, putting your heads down and hands up?"

Mr. Kale felt as though a hole had opened in the Earth and swallowed him whole. Just by the voice, he knew... he _knew_...

Bone-chilling terror swept through him, freezing him into place. He couldn't move - couldn't think. He struggled to catch his breath, choking on nothing. He could hear footsteps, dress shoes, clapping against the marble floor slowly.

How had the murdering psychopath escaped Arkham? Just when the city had begun to pick itself up and return back to normal?

And moreover, how could this be happening to _him_?

The cashier slowly reached her arm down, beneath the counter. Her blue eyes peered intensely at him, and he shook his head slowly, wordlessly telling her '_No_!'

The walls of the cubicle helped to hide her thin, fragile hand as it came back up with a small gun. It was set gently onto the counter, pushed silently towards him. It glittered promisingly in the light, and Stanley Kale looked back up, doe-eyed, as the woman merely nodded back at him.

Unfortunately, he understood.

The dire urge to live spurred him to slowly reached forward, scooping the small weapon into his clammy hands. Stanley looked back up at the brunette, watching as she reached her hand back beneath the counter, hands undoubtedly feeling around for that button that would immediately notify the cops of their situation.

_**BANG**_!

Next thing he knew, Stanley felt the sickening sensation of warm wetness splattering upon his face, gazing in repulsed terror as a good chunk of the woman's face was blown off. Her jaw hung at a grotesque angle by a couple threads of tendons and flesh, and then her body pitched backwards in a dead slump.

Some people screamed.

So did he.

Mortified, Mr. Kale took this as his cue to get down. Slowly, tremblingly, he kneeled to the floor, watching out of the corner of his eye as a purple-colored silhouette walked to the cubicle beside him.

"Now, I want you to get all of that money in _there_- into _these _bags, toots." The Joker nodded his chin at the bags slung over his shoulders. The woman whimpered as the Joker took her by the nape, pulling her roughly forward and shoving his gun into the poor woman's mouth. She choked on the barrel as tears trickled down her cheeks. "And no.. funny business, ya hear? Or you'll end up like you're pretty little coworker over there."

* * *

Something clicked.

People curled in upon themselves in pitiful, futile ways. Mothers clutched their children to their bosoms, whispering false promises- "Everything's gonna be OK... Shh." Men held their hands to their faces, hoping to hide the sheer terror that was in their eyes.

"L-Let her _go_."

The air was charged with apprehension; the static was near tangible. Like he could reach out, touch it, and get shocked to death. The Joker's chronic Cheshire-Cat grin tugged at his scar-stippled lips as he cocked his head to the side, examining the man with a delicately arched brow.

After spending the previous night toiling away the hours trying to re-inspire his creative prowess with… what proved to be _useless _thoughts, the painted man had wasted no time in setting out as soon as the sun rose over the horizon, hell-bent on instituting some mayhem.

Which, of course, led him to being in this situation.

'This_' _included a gun being aimed directly at his face.

Why did everyone always deem it necessary to ruin his fun?

"And just _what _do you think that'll accomplish?" Inquired the purple-clad criminal bemusedly, tongue darting out to lick his red-stained lips. His darkened gaze was pinned upon the man before him, scrutinizing him as if he were an amoeba under a high-powered microscope.

"Let her go, damn it!"

The brawny man stood taller than the Joker, but only by a mere inch or so. Donned in a well-pressed, three-piece suit, he didn't exactly _look _like much of a pushover. He appeared to be around mid-fifties, with a grey, receding hair line and tired, brown eyes, emanating that 'weary-war-hero' sort of aura. But all the same, the man's lips were pulled back into a ferocious snarl, posture as rigid as a carved statue. Not to mention, his face was splattered with freshly-spilled blood.

The Joker conceded to the man's orders, releasing the woman from his grip, but not without roughly shoving her first. She flew backwards, falling firmly against the ground, sobbing as she scrambled back against the wall.

"Now, drop the goddamn gun." The older man ordered, voice cracking. His gun-holding hand trembled unsteadily. A bead of sweat trickled down the side of his round face. The Joker looked unmoved, maybe even bored. He just kept smiling and smiling, eyes glued on the robust, suit-clad man as he carelessly tossed the gun somewhere behind him. "Don't even thinkabout moving."

"Hey, let's be.. ah, _reasonable_." The Joker implored, holding up his fisted, un-gloved hands in surrender. This was supposed to be his long-overdue coming-out party. And here this guy was, acting all self-righteous, as if he had the right to go and rain on his parade.

The Joker may not have looked it, but he was thoroughly irritated.

"I said don't _move_!" Shouted the other, moving forward to press the cold steal against the heated flesh of the Joker's temple. The barrel slid upon the oily texture of his face paint, slipping just above his cheekbone and leaving a sad-looking smear.

"Don't you want my hands where you can see them?" Inquired the face-painted man, feigning confusion.

The man growled. Apparently, he wasn't one for jokes.

"Ah, _ok _then." And the Joker rose his hands slightly higher, causing the sleeves of his plum-colored trench coat to slip down his forearms.

"Now, stay perfectly still, or I swear to _God _I'll blow your brains ou-!" Suddenly, the brown-eyed man's eyes narrowed, lips working slowly into a frown.

If possible, those marred, morbidly red lips smiled even wider. It looked as though his scars would burst open.

"What… what the hell is that?" The man nodded, motioning to the Joker's right palm, face purpling with rage. "In your hand!"

A small, vein-like wire laced up the Joker's wrist, wrapping around his knuckles several times and disappearing beneath the flesh of his palms.

The olive-haired criminal said nothing, beaming auspiciously at him. Vaguely, the Joker noticed a slight increase of pressure upon the gun being held to his head, moving from his cheek and back to his temple.

"Drop whatever the fuck that thing is onto the floor!" The man barked out, droplets of spit landing on the Joker's unsuspecting face.

"No can do, _Buckaroo_," giddily replied the painted man, wanting to wipe off the droplets of saliva, but wisely refraining.

"You see, this here _thing_," he emphasized with a shake of his festooned wrist, "is the detonator to the bombs my friends and I, ah, set up inside of the bank."

Their quiet (but not forgotten) audience seemed to gasp collectively, voices still so small and meager that they were barely audible. Some began to cry softly. Others breathed heavily, in a nearly-hyperventilating manner. The rest held bated breaths.

"Now…"

For a moment, the older man's expression was inscrutable and sphinx-like, but the expression itself proved to be mercurial. After a moment of digesting the Joker's words, those brown, tired eyes bulged violently from their sockets, the violet tinge of anger upon his complexion fading into an ill-looking pallor.

"Like I said before…" The Joker lowered his left hand, longish fingers grasping at the gun and pushing it a safe distance away, "let's be _reasonable_!"

* * *

The man sputtered pathetically, eyes jerking back and forth, searching for some sort of escape. But the painted harlequin was seemingly everywhere, everywhere he looked, _smiling _at him…

Suddenly, the Joker began his advance upon the cowering man, taking wide strides forward, furious grin firmly plastered upon his face as hysterical laughter began to erupt from within him. He held the detonator in the palm of his hand with an air of haughtiness, fingers tinkering with the small, red switch on its surface. The other man stumbled back wearily, gun dropping from his suddenly flimsy grip. It clattered loudly upon the marble floor, and everyone within the bank tensed, realizing their last hope had fizzled out- a lot like a dying star.

"People are just… so… _funny _sometimes," he began with a guttural voice, low and menacing, as if the words were pouring from Satan's lips instead of his own. "You had the _chance_, you coulda just _killed _me... But, hell!"

The Joker assailed the blood-covered man, seizing him by the collar, a razor-sharp, blue-handled knife suddenly in hand. The blade hovered meaningfully above his pulse, where the veins could be seen protruding from the man's flesh, tantalizingly visible.

"_**Why didn't you just KILL ME?!**_" The Joker roared furiously, violently jarring the man backwards and forwards, as if he was attempting to shake the life out of him. The taller man whimpered in response, like a wounded dog.

Then, as if the outburst had never even occurred, the purple-clad criminal reverted back to twittering happily like a school girl, biting his bottom lip in an attempt to stop. But the laughter simply continued to spew from him; each chuckle changing variably in pitch, octaves plummeting and spiking between breaths.

So dumb. People were so goddamn _dumb_.

"You see this?" Removing the knife from its threatening dance upon the man's trachea, the Joker held the aforementioned object up to the man's wide-eyed, ashen face. "This is my special knife. Isn't it just beautiful?"

The brown-eyed man shivered in the criminal's grip, breath caught in his throat as the blade was held right before his eyes, catching the artificial light and refracting it in an array of different colors.

"It's cut through an awful lot of things. Stomachs, scalps, throats, wrists. Even... _mouths_…" The Joker paused momentarily, the twinkle in his eyes fading, the russet color of his irises suddenly clouded in reverie.

The Joker's hostage shuddered, attempting to dislodge himself from the criminal's vice grip while he still had a chance, but the Joker held steadfast.

"If you're going to kill me, just do it already!" The suited man pleaded, voice laced with trepidation. A sob escaped him.

"Oh, don't worry. We'll get to that part soon enough," sung the painted man in a lackadaisical voice, smirking a little bit as the man gulped, horrified. "But back to my… little story. Make sure you listen, and make sure you listen real good… cause if ya don_'_t, and ya just ignore me… you see these people here?"

The green-haired male motioned to the people huddled upon the floor, faces paled with fear as they watched the scene unfold.

**_"Do you see them?!" _**The criminal bellowed at the man, infuriated at the lack of response.

The round face nodded swiftly.

"None of them will get to go back to their precious little homes, either! 'Cause I'll blow 'em _all _up! So listen carefully, hero-boy," the Joker spoke demurely, "cuz it's the last thing you're _**ever **_gonna do.

"I know ya saw my _scars_," he licked fervently at his lips, accentuating this statement. "Well, whether you like it or not_, _I'm gonna tell you how I got 'em."

The man began to squirm again, every instinct screaming at him to get as far away as from this monstrous creature as physically possible. He floundered, but the Joker pulled back on the man's collar just a little bit harshly, forcing him to stand stock still. That blade was now fully flush against his skin, pressing, _pushing_… the Joker hummed his approval when the man had the sense to let out a choked cry.

"It all started when I was a kid. You see, when _I _was young, my mom…? She never once looked in my direction. Not once.

"In fact, if I didn't _know _any better, I'd say she couldn't give two shits less about me!

"Now, I tried everything to get her attention. And I mean _everything_. It never, ever worked, though. Nothing did!

"That's when… that's when I found this little ol' knife_, _lying on the kitchen counterrrr…" He drew out the last syllable, voice raising in pitch, face precariously close to his captive's as he pressed the knife harder against the man's skin, not enough to make it bleed, but enough to turn the surrounding skin a faint white color. "And I got this really _great_, uh- this really _brilliant _idea. I thought to myself, bringing the knife to my lips, I thought, _'Gee, I wonder... I wonder if mommy will notice __**this**__?'_"

Hands quivering with anticipation, the Joker swept his thumb over the corners of his lips, tracing over the scars residing in his cheeks, eyelids fluttering wildly as if he were recalling the memory with startlingly vivid clarity.

"but- you wanna know what's so very ironic about this little tale of mine?" Biting the inside of his cheeks and eyes narrowed in an odd expression, the Joker brought the knife up to the man's fat-lined cheeks, adding just enough pressure to break the skin there. A tiny droplet of crimson pooled beneath the silvery edge. "…She did."

The man's eyelids were screwed tightly shut, face contorted in pain as he waited for that final, fatal strike.

He had heard the Joker often killed his victims by slicing their faces open, leaving them to bleed to death. Sometimes, he'd also heard, even taking the time to stitch his victims back together. What would the harlequin prince do to him? Shoot him with his own gun? Slice his own lips into an eternal smile and sew him back together?

Heaving a bit of a sigh, the criminal removed the blade from the man's skin, opening his coat and placing the weapon into a hidden pocket. He then watched, fascinated, as the small droplet of blood coalesced down the other man's face.

"Don't you see?" Queried the Joker after a moment of quiet staring.

One of the man's eyelids slowly peeked open, revealing a frightened, swarthy hazel eye.

"The world we live in is a place of… extremes. There's no gray between all the black and white. You can't just jump to the plate, ready to play hero, and then back out. Like yourself. That's why I do what I do!

"Because, to get a point across in this world… Ya gotta do something big. Doesn't matter if it's disastrous, or if people die in the process. 'Cause, well… people die every day! In the end, the outcome is all that really matters.

"To _really _live, you just gotta grab life by the neck… and squeeeeze."

Without further adieu, the Joker took the man named Stanley Kale by the throat, and did just that.

* * *

After nearly a year of reconstruction, the majority of Wayne Manor had been completely restored to its previous grandeur. The landscape was covered in pre-grown sod, covering up parts of the lawn that had been burnt off. Large trees from outside of the property were uprooted and replanted, obscuring the mansion from sight.

Bruce Wayne moved back into his old home with an odd feeling of blitheness, glad to escape from the ruckus of city life. Out here, just on the edge of city limits, the business tycoon could actually hear himself think. From this distance, one could scarcely hear the howling of ambulances and police cars, or the roar of impatient traffic. The air was breathable, too; clean, crisp… something that his lungs truly appreciated.

For the first time in a long while, the heir of Wayne Enterprises felt relatively at peace with himself.

Bruce scarcely made trips into the heart of Gotham- he only took the time to visit when he was required at his company's board meetings. He preferred to spend his days assisting in the complete restoration of his late family's home. He took pride in being able to put in his two cents, rebuilding the edifice which he so carelessly destroyed... that, and the constant labor helped to keep his mind at ease.

Despite the many months he'd been given to recuperate, silently relinquishing his title as Batman was the one thing Bruce never fully recovered from. GCN's nightly news update was something he'd weened himself off of. He just couldn't watch it; not without hearing about some sort of bank robbery, or a drive-by shooting, or a family being massacred… he just couldn't take it.

After all that happened, and all the people he failed to save…

It was just too much.

Rachel and Harvey's death; the Joker's imprisonment; Batman, taking the fallout for all of the casualties that occurred during the process. Before, he thought that continuing his work as Batman, despite having taken responsibility for the White Knight's death, would be easy. And oh, how horribly wrong he had been. It was too risky. Too dangerous.

Batman had served his purpose, but at a price. The people of Gotham could no longer look upon the masked vigilante without the hatred that had fully blossomed in their chests. After a stunning moment of clarity, Bruce had begrudgingly accepted the facts- Gotham was beyond his help. The city and its people would need the will to save themselves before anyone else could. Appealing to their ignorance and cleaning up after their messes was no way to get the entire city back onto its feet - what was Gotham without its people there to support it? Surely he couldn't have deluded himself into thinking that he alone would be able to save everyone - even when he couldn't save himself and those closest to him?

"Master Wayne," a voice intoned, shocking Bruce out of his sudden bout of absentmindedness. The brown-eyed scion turned away from the window. "I knocked, but you didn't answer," Alfred informed him, sounding somewhat concerned.

"Oh… Sorry about that," Bruce apologized weakly, giving the man a half-assed smile. "My mind's just been wandering."

He had been working most of the morning on the south east corner of the manor. It had been closed off to the construction workers, for obvious reasons. The piles of rubble and broken glass brought back memories, memories of a time when he'd felt…felt a bit more _real_. As if he wasn't masquerading around in someone else's skin.

He went back and forth, dumping wheelbarrow after wheelbarrow of burnt memories into some old, beaten-up truck, where they'd be hauled away to the city dump. With each trip, he felt more and more like he was losing pieces of himself.

At noon, he deemed himself worthy of taking a break. Brow beaded with sweat, Bruce meandered back into the manor, where he took the time to gaze out of one of the many windows, downing a cold glass of water.

It was late autumn now; the replanted trees were quite a sight to behold. He'd found himself observing the scenery like he never had before, appreciating the beauty that could be found just outside of his windowpane.

That's when his mind began to wander...

"I took the time to make you lunch, Master Wayne," the white-haired man held up a tray of food. It was a simple meal- a grilled cheese sandwich, a bowl of fruit with an empty glass and a small pot of tea on the side.

"Thanks," Bruce's eyes followed Alfred as he placed the tray on the end table.

"Would you like to watch a bit of television, sir?" Questioned the Englishman, picking up the TV remote.

With a chuckle, Bruce muttered a small, "sure, why not?" and went to sit on the couch placed beside the end table, relishing how the cushions gave way beneath him. He reached for his sandwich first, taking a sizeable bite out of it.

The flat screen television, hung on the opposite wall, flickered to life. Blackness briefly covered the screen, swiftly fading, leaving a flawless picture…

Of a building, completely in shambles.

Alfred's eyes widened a fraction. He turned to look at Bruce, scrutinizing the younger man's suddenly darkened expression.

"Turn it up, Alfred," Bruce commanded firmly, taking another bite out of his sandwich with his eyes narrowing. The older man did so without a word, startled at the man's odd request, but not being able to quell the feeling of dread pooling in his belly as the sound gradually increased. Master Wayne hadn't so much as even _glanced_ at a news broadcast in months, so why now...?

The camera switched to an aerial view, showing the destruction from above. Smoke rose from the wreckage- the entire city block was lined with police cars and fire trucks, large spouts of water shooting from all angles in an attempt to put out the burning pyre.

Then, a cameraman was following a small, Asian woman, donned in a white blouse and black dress slacks. She held a microphone close to her lips, brushing her hair out of her face as they followed a small crowd of reporters closer to the blaze.

"We are live, reporting from the heart of Gotham City, where Gotham City Bank now lays in complete ruin…" Reported the dark-skinned woman, wheezing for air. "This is as close as we can get... the air is too hot and thick with smoke. Police officers said that the bank exploded after the vaults were completely robbed of their contents a mere twenty minutes ago. Firefighters are saying that no survivors have been found thus far-"

The woman's verbal trek came to a sudden halt and the screen flashed.

The television turned to white noise before an image suddenly flooded upon the screen. The camera appeared to be videotaping from inside of a building… but the picture was too jittery to make out.

Bruce found himself stilling, sandwich held poised at his lips. This scenario seemed sickeningly familiar.

"Citizens of Gotham, how nice it is to... see you all once again." Cackled a deep voice. "Oh... who is this? Well, I don't really want to spoil it for ya… so why don't you all just go and take a wild _guess_?"

The sandwich fell from Bruce's suddenly limp hand, landing on the floor. The dark-haired man leaned forward, mouth slightly ajar and eyes peeled open wide.

"Just thought I'd… let you all in on a bit of a secret of mine!" The voice giggled in that achingly familiar tone; with that scarcely-concealed insanity. "I'm ready to play my… my little game with you all again.

"Heehee. This _bank_? These _people_? It's only the beginning, ladies and gentlemen!" The person wielding the camera crowed happily, spinning the camera around as though they thought it were a toy. Suddenly, the jostling stopped. The unclear image drew into focus- revealing the painted face of the Joker, peals of laughter falling from his tarnished, sanguine lips.

Bruce's face was now buried suffocatingly deep within his palms, murmuring desperately to himself, "No, no, no, no, _**no**_…."

"I do apologize, but--ah, I have an appointment to get to… so I'm gonna have to cut this _chat _of ours short. But before I go, I just wanted tuh leave you all with one. _Little_. **_Question_.**" The scar-faced criminal made a small clicking sound with his tongue, turning the camera towards a body laying lifelessly on the floor. The corpse's lips were carved upwards, sewn haphazardly back together - a picturesque signature of the Joker's madness. B

Innocently, sweetly, the Joker brought the camera back to his face and began to speak once more. He shrugged a little, smacking his lips.

"With the... _Batman _being gone and all... who_'s _gonna be there to save you all from me?"

* * *

**Author's note:**

-flops onto bed-

This took _forever! AFJHSGDFAKJS_

I gotta... take a minute to apologize. You see, I couldn't help but notice that almost every Joker-related fic has at least _one _reference to the 'story-behind-the-scar' thing. So I tossed my own version in there, just to get it over with. I dunno about you, but I liked how it turned out... the bank scene being my favorite part to write.

Hope you all liked the length. Please review- if you found any mistakes in spelling or grammar, I'd appreciate it if you notified me ASAP.

See you all next chapter!

(PS: Thank you all so much for the feedback on the prologue. I know it was disappointingly short, but I tried to make up for it by making this one extremely long.)


	3. Chapter 3

* * *

_In which a mistake is made, the Joker discovers Batman's true identity, and things take a general turn for the worst. Joker/Batman pairing. Post-TDK universe. Ongoing._

Without a Cowl

Chapter III

* * *

That deranged laughter had left him feeling vacant. It felt as though the high-pitched cackle had materialized into a sharp-pointed pickaxe, used to brutally excavate all of his organs. It left him hollow. _Hopeless_. A sick knot coiled in his stomach at the unfamiliar sensation; he felt uncomfortably cold on the inside. Somehow, his mind couldn't really catch up and wrap itself around the new information presented to him, despite the fact that it was racing at a thousand miles per hour. His turbulent thoughts simply refused be tamed, leaving him to drown in a dark, tumultuous sea of confusion.

Swallowing for air, Bruce suddenly noticed how his heart was fluttering wildly, like a bird in a too-small cage. It was as though the world was closing in on him, pushing him into a dark corner… into a time where he was still a young child and his parents had fallen onto the street – shot, cold and _dead_.

Alfred watched the scene with a staid expression. His age-worn eyes held intense pity; something he knew that the young Wayne would not accept. Especially not from him. The older man watched Bruce as his face became carefully devoid of emotion, protective walls rising up and barricading the outside world. The younger man just sat and stared.

Alfred pressed the pause button on the remote and took his leave; footfalls fading as he quietly shut the door behind him.

Bruce's palms pressed harshly against his eyes, blotting his vision, creating odd little shapes and patterns that promenaded furiously in the inky blackness. The longer he held his hands in place, the more the aching, pounding pressure in his temples grew, making it feel as though his brain might implode. However, it was a thought that seemed welcoming, considering the situation he was now in.

Seven months of steady, relatively successful rehabilitation, and look where it all had gotten him? The heir of Wayne Enterprises had, once again, been forcefully relocated to square one.

Bruce recalled the first month or two succeeding the scar-faced harlequin's imprisonment. During that time he had sat, apprehensive, just _waiting _for the painted man to make some sort of move. _Any _sort of move. Because the Joker was _the Joker_, and he would undoubtedly be able to strike him down, whether or not he was confined to a padded cell, dressed in a straight jacket and under constant surveillance.

But time slowly trudged on. And as each painfully long moment ticked by without any mishaps or contingencies, he had come to believe that maybe, just _maybe_… it was all over.

And he had _accepted _it.

Why did it seem as though everything his life traveled in was one big, malicious circle?

Just when he could no longer bear the steady and gradually intensifying throbbing in his temples Bruce reluctantly pulled his hands away and set them, fisted, in his lap. He took a moment to peer up at the paused television screen, eyes grievously somber. That marred face; those laughing, squinted eyes glinting back at him….

Just _looking _at the monster made the brown-eyed man want to choke the life out of something.

"I need something to drink," Bruce reconciled beneath his breath, lips thinned as he leered angrily at the carpet. He took a moment and then gathered himself up from the ornately-decorated couch, being careful to step over his fallen lunch. Without a second glance at the frozen screen the brown-eyed man stiffly walked out of the room, intent on downing in the first bottle of whiskey he laid eyes on.

* * *

Climbing from his patrol car Police Commissioner Jim Gordon took a moment to assess his surroundings. His spectacle-covered eyes immediately fell upon the enormous, charcoal-black mass about two hundred meters away from where he was currently parked. He watched, bewildered, as the tempest of smoke twisted and convoluted wildly in the wind. With narrowed eyes Gordon could make out what he assumed was the intricate, steel skeleton that once held the bank upright. The metal infrastructure looked dangerously unstable; it would probably collapse soon.

The apartment complex beside the fallen building appeared worse for ware as well. From the looks of it, the building had probably sustained a large amount of smoke damage. It'd most likely have to be torn down. That, or be completely renovated…

"You've _got _to be kidding me…" He breathed, taking in the destruction with pathological awe. Shutting his car door with a gentle kick of his foot, Gordon trotted towards a small group of police officers and firemen standing off to the side. When he walked up to them they all glanced up, faces drained of energy, nodding at him in acknowledgment. Gordon gave them a half-hearted wave, shoving his hand back into his jacket pocket. It was damn cold out, despite the heat emanating from the steaming pile of rocks nearby.

Walking past the small group the Commissioner's gaze finally fell upon the fire chief. Just the man he was looking for.

"What a mess." Muttered the man, who was currently engaged in conversation with one of his fellow firemen. The other nodded, disheartened, as he kicked a small rock. It rolled across the cracked pavement, disappearing into one of the many crevices.

"Do we have a toll yet?" Gordon asked the fire chief, whose stubble-covered face was lined with dark blotches of soot.

The man took off his cap, holding it in one hand as his other reached to scratch at his buzzed scalp. He shook his head slowly, unsure.

"We're at twenty three right now…" Replied the man with a sedated voice, "and counting. We don't know how many more there are; some of the bodies were probably incinerated in the blast. From the looks of it, it was pretty intense."

"Damn…" Gordon found himself swearing as he turned back and stared at the still-hot pile of rocks and ash. '_Twenty three?' _He thought, head swimming at the number. "No survivors, I take it?"

"Nope."

"_Heehee. This bank? These people? It's only the beginning, ladies and gentleman…"_

Gordon winced at the recollection.

'_Could've been worse.'_

And to think, with the Joker loose, things would only get worse.

It had only been three days since the psychopath had pulled off his lucrative escape. Three _days_. The mad man didn't bother to take the time to fall back and gather his wits about him. No, he simply dove back in, head-first, not caring about the consequences. But then again, Gordon supposed, the painted criminal _did _have plenty of time to devise a scheme of some sort during the time he was imprisoned.

Furious, stressed and just _dancing _on the edge of passing out from exhaustion, Gordon had spent those three days in his department (which was engulfed in total chaos at the time) working alongside his co-workers, tirelessly trying to keep the Joker's escape under wraps… Every painstakingly slow minute of those days was spent worrying, wondering, _waiting_…

Three days, and _now _look where he was? Standing in front of what once used to be a historic piece of architecture; now leveled to smoking, smoldering _cinders_. Three days, and suddenly twenty three people… maybe even more, were _dead_. Three days, and the very _notion _of 'public safety' was nothing short of laughable.

And to top it off, the way the Joker had unveiled himself so shrewdly in the midst GCN's live broadcast, televising his newest accomplishment with completely unabashed, childlike _elation_…

'_Only makes things much, much worse,' _The commissioner mused darkly to himself, rubbing at his temples in hopes to stave off the mild headache he'd suddenly acquired. Vaguely, Gordon wondered if he should go and get his blood pressure checked. Surely all of this stress wasn't doing his aging body any good…

"You gonna be ok there, Gordon?" Regarded the fire chief in his Brooklyn accent, looking concerned.

The other man stifled a chuckle, shivering a little as a gust of wind came over them. "I think I'll be… _better_, after I get a warm cup of coffee."

'_An entire pot is more like it…' _His psyche intoned sarcastically.

"I'm sure everyone else is thinking the exact same thing," Laughed the fire chief, replacing his cap onto his head and straightening it. "Hey… Gordon. I don't mean to pry, but…what _are _we gonna do?"

Gordon shifted a bit uncomfortably at the question, taking a moment to adjust his glasses. With his index finger, he habitually pushed the frames further upon the arch of his nose. He knew what the fireman was referring to.

"I'm not really sure, to be honest." Gordon answered, keeping his voice carefully measured. It was the truth, too. He had _no _idea.

"… I see." The man looked put out for a moment. He then turned to the Police Commissioner, giving him an optimistic grin. It appeared lopsided and forced, but it was the effort that truly counted. "Well, I'm gonna head on in there and see what else we can dig up. If you need me, just holler."

"I'll be sure to do that."

The middle-aged man had been at the crime scene for about three hours before he'd excused himself, retiring back to his office. Surprisingly, the death toll only went up by three during that period of time. Gordon had expected more, but he was glad to have been proven wrong for once.

Chin resting in the palm of his hand, Gordon silently gave thanks to the secretary who had set, with a dull 'chink,' an enormous mug of coffee on his desk. He didn't lift his head to acknowledge the woman, opting to let out a small grunt of appreciation instead. Monosyllables seemed to be the only thing his mouth was capable of uttering during the past couple of hours.

'_Finally_,' He thought with a relieved smile. Maneuvering his hands around the navy blue mug, Gordon adjusted himself in his seat, hunching over the steaming cup. Heat rose from it, warming his face a little bit. Despite the darkness of the liquid, the Commissioner could still make out his reflection.

He looked older. But, he supposed that anyone would, if they had a job as high-strung as his.

Despite the fact he was having extreme difficulty keeping his eyelids even _remotely _open, the Commissioner's brain stood at complete attention, alert and constantly spitting out thought after thought. There were so many things that he _could _be thinking about, but… well, the Joker was free, and Gordon had the sneaking suspicion that the newest round of this so-called 'game' would be much more cataclysmic than the last.

Which left Gordon thinking about… _him_.

The Commissioner knew that he shouldn't, but he _was_. Gordon knew that _whoever _the Batman was, he was aware of what was going on… and that he was probably extremely embittered.

The Bat had been at the very apex of Gotham's Most Wanted list for the past seven months. Thankfully, the investigation was going nowhere, just as it had before Batman relinquished his title. But that didn't change the fact that the vigilante was a _criminal _in society's mind. It didn't change the fact that Gordon had radioed in on that fateful night… the night of Harvey Dent's death, telling his fellow officers it had been the Dark Knight who'd killed those people. It didn't change the fact that he'd transformed the one person who'd actually made a _difference _in this town into a so-called 'cold-blooded killer.'

It didn't change the fact that the Batman was _gone_.

And, at times like this, Gordon knew that it was his own fault. He was one of few people who knew that the Batman had never committed any sort of crimes. He should have done something, said something in the vigilante's defense- but he _hadn't_.

What would Gotham do now that the murdering clown was back on the streets, ready to torment its citizens and make them suffer more? Even if every policeman in Gotham could be deployed, ordered to hunt down the painted man, that didn't mean that they'd be able to _find_ him. Gotham was a large city, and the Joker had proved himself to be extremely elusive when he wanted to be. They wouldn't be able to find him… not unless the harlequin _wanted _them to, anyhow… and if the man _did _let the police find him, only God could know what sordid gimmicks the lunatic would have in store for them.

Who or what would the Joker's next target be? Was the destruction of Gotham City Bank only a lure to bring out Batman? How many more people would die?

So many questions- so few answers, Gordon found, frowning a bit.

He wasn't one who enjoyed being left out of the loop. The feeling of having order in his department made him much more calm, made it easier to think clearly. He liked being able to know what was going on, liked having a firm understanding of things. He wanted things to run systematically and smoothly.

Only now, Gordon felt like he didn't know or have control over _anything_.

But, if there was anything that the Commissioner _was _sure of, it was that the Joker would be rigorously scouting for his worthy opponent. And that opponent, Gordon knew, would and could only ever be Batman.

And for now, that's all he could work off of, really.

* * *

Who knew that his impromptu bank-robbery would have garnered so much attention? He'd jumped into the fray without a helmet, and now he was like some sort of purple heart-bearing war hero… except, well, the total and complete and polar _opposite_.

There was an entire conglomeration of small television screens in the middle of the room, piled haphazardly upon each other, precariously aslant. In the darkness of the incredibly cramped room, the Joker sat before these screens, head bowed, with a malicious smirk tingeing his disfigured, fiery red lips. The screens flickered, fluctuating between scenes. One screen showed an explosion taking place. The earth gaped open like the maw of an enormous beast, and from the aperture emerged a mushroom cloud, ascending into the air… On another screen, Miracle on 34th Street played.

"_You know what the imagination is?" _

"_Oh, sure. That's when you see things, but they're not really there." _

"_Well, that can be caused by other things, too."_

Another screen reflected his own face, painted and contorted with hilarity as the camera shook wildly. There were News broadcasts. Cartoons. Reruns of Tom and Jerry. Acts of violence. Illnesses. Wars.

It wasn't just Gotham; the entire _world _was filthy.

With a small spark he'd ignited the hellish conflagration of fear in all of Gotham's citizen's hearts. It wouldn't be long now. Not long until that incapacitating fear drove them to the brink. They'd accuse the next highest power, enraged. They'd play the blame game.

And that's what he _wanted_.

Kicking his foot against a small niche in the enormous mass of technology the Joker pivoted himself away from the mountain of television sets. His ostentatiously dressed silhouette caught the ghostly, oscillating glow emanating from each individual screen as the chair wheeled away. He caught himself upon his desk, gloveless palms slapping loudly against the wooden surface.

Now, he had an entire line of henchman just _waiting _to be put to use. All he needed was some sort of inspiration. Another spark to rekindle the candle of destruction. But _what_…?

Yes, he'd struck fear in the masses. Yes, they were swiftly coming to the point of irrationality. Now he needed to upset the _foundations_. He needed to do something that would shake Gotham irreversibly. He needed more leverage to get a certain _someone_'s attention. Needed something. _Anything_. Anything that would lure Batman back out onto the streets, so that the Joker could see those dark eyes glaring furiously at him from beneath that silly cowl, testing him, pushing him to the limit…

The Joker shivered a little. He was positive that whoever the Batman was, that person had seen his debut on GCN. Somehow, the thought enticed him. That the man who he'd danced toe-to-toe with all those months ago had _watched _his self-dubbed 'coming-out party.'

And now, with all of this new-found money in his possession, the Joker could afford throwing a party that was a little bit more… _extravagant_. Maybe he could even send an invitation to the Batman?

At this, the harlequin grinned effervescently as his hand reached up to turn on his desk lamp. A sallow yellow lit the room. Reaching for a pencil, the Joker began to scribble messily upon a crinkled sheet of paper. The black ink bled onto the tattered surface, thick and dark, pouring from the inkwell and forming inscrutable lines.

He had an idea.

* * *

The sun had set and Bruce Wayne was now officially _drunk_.

Some may have called it a fool's way out - drinking such an obscene volume of alcohol - but Bruce supposed he had every goddamn right to drink away his problems with a bottle of whiskey, or maybe even with _ten_, if he saw fit to do so. Even if it was only a temporary solution to a not-so-temporary problem, it didn't really matter. Because, at _this _moment in time, right now, he couldn't care _less _if the Joker had killed a building-full of innocent civilians. He didn't care that the psycho killer he'd worked so. Fucking. _Hard_. to get locked away was parading around the streets, inadvertently rubbing his fucking _nose _in it.

He. Didn't. _Care_.

And it was _fabulous_.

The dark-haired man leaned meaningfully against the kitchen counter, right hand pressed against the black marble surface to maintain balance while his other held up a small shot glass. Bruce brought the glass to his eyes, trying to hold his arm impossibly still and carefully analyzing the golden liquid within. Despite his arm not moving the liquid was constantly in motion, sloshing softly against the inside of the glass.

With each drink, Bruce relished the unfurling of his tense muscles, smiling as they came undone in the way a tightly-coiled snake releases its prey.

And the more he drank, the more he began to wonder why he was drinking in the first place. Which was what his initial goal had been, really.

_'Mission accomplished,' _The man thought derisively.

Funnily enough, the brown-eyed heir of Wayne Enterprises was the kind of drunk that was able to feign sobriety. Alcohol didn't necessarily make him lose grip of his normal rational; it simply, more often then not, made him less inclined to make the… right decision. Slurring was something he had easily conquered. He could walk in a damn straight line, too.

So when Bruce had silently decided to push away from the kitchen counter, opting to find a place to sit so that he could get even _more_ thoroughly smashed, he was surprised to find that he _stumbled _in a really ridiculous sort of way, like gravity suddenly decided to tug harshly on the sleeve of his shirt. And of course, because lady Fate was a really huge bitch, his sudden trip-up occurred just as Alfred walked through the threshold of the kitchen, grocery bags in hand.

The brown-eyed man attempted to cover up the sudden loss of balance by swiping at some imaginary dirtiness on the floor and straitening his pants.

Alfred paused to watch the comical display; eyebrow hiking upwards ever-so-slightly.

"If you don't mind me saying so, Sir… That was pathetic." The Englishman informed him amusedly.

Bruce straightened himself, looking undignified.

"I _do _mind," He shot back humorously, taking a small sip out of his shot glass. The liquid left a warm sensation in his mouth, following down his esophagus, settling in his stomach. The sensation spread through him like poison in his veins.

"I suppose telling you that you've probably had enough to drink wouldn't necessarily make you put that bottle away, would it, Master Wayne?" Alfred questioned rhetorically, moving to the opposite side of the kitchen, where he hefted the paper grocery bags onto the counter. He then began to unload the contents within, maneuvering himself expertly around the room. Fruits were arranged in the fruit bowl, some were deposited in the fridge, and breads were placed in the bread drawer…

"You've got _that _right," Bruce gave him a charming smile, taking another, this time more generous, sip of whiskey. Alfred eyed him wearily; rhetorical questions weren't meant to be answered, after all. Bruce closed his eyes and breathed deeply, as if the alcohol was suddenly too hot to drink. "Hey, ah, Alfred. Didn't you mention something earlier, something about me being invited to a party tonight?"

The older man stopped again, brows furrowing. He held several assorted containers of spices in his hands that simply begged to be placed alphabetically with their counterparts.

"Well, _yes_ sir, but…not _that _kind of party," Alfred began earnestly, fixing the billionaire with a stern look, "and don't you think it would be best to… lay _low _for a while?"

A silent_ 'Because you're obviously shit-faced?' _hung in the air, left unsaid.

"_Nonsense_, Alfred," Bruce whisked away the bottle of alcohol by its neck, capping it with a small cork. He then placed it on the counter with his other accumulation of rare and expensive drinks, not caring when he nearly knocked over a couple of them in the process. "What kind of party did you say it was?"

Alfred heaved a resigned sigh, setting the spices on the counter.

"It's a fundraiser, Master Wayne." He enlightened in a dull voice.

Bruce looked mildly disappointed at this, staring unseeingly out of the darkened kitchen window. _'Always a damn fundraiser.' _

"Well, _that _won't do, then." Bruce muttered to himself, using the counter as a balancing device once more. It felt like something was weighing him down. His legs wanted to collapse beneath him. Head bowing, Bruce turned his eyes to the sink beneath him, peering into the drain. His vision was blurry. "Alfred, is it just me?"

"Excuse me?" The Englishman inquired quizzically, looking mildly puzzled.

"I just don't _get _it." The younger man started again, lips tightening. "I was so ready, so damn _ready _to just _forget_ about everything. All of this shit? It just doesn't make sense."

Suddenly Alfred fully turned away from the groceries, taking on a more serious look.

"Well, it doesn't have to make sense, Master Wayne." He told the other slowly, carefully calculating his response. "_Life _doesn't make sense, at times. You just have to take it as it comes. Deal with the problems you are faced with, _then _move on.

"...You're not trying to tell me that you've been attempting to simply _forget _all of your problems this entire time, are you, Master Wayne?"

Bruce clenched his teeth tightly, jaw flexing visibly with the effort. Alfred had this magnificent way of sounding just like his late father, admonishing him for doing something reckless and extremely stupid, but in a somehow nice way.

That's probably the only reason why he actually _listened_.

Undeterred, Alfred continued.

"You once told me that Batman was a symbol. A symbol that couldn't be destroyed... couldn't vanish or be turned to dust. And, above all, it couldn't be _forgotten_."

Something akin to shame bloomed in the young business tycoon's chest. Despite his inebriated state, Bruce knew that Alfred was right. And he took each word that was spoken to heart, because everything that fell from the older man's lips was intellectually crafted so that he could _learn_.

"That symbol has became a _part _of you, Master Bruce, whether you are aware of it or not. It's there and it will always be there. It's not something that can be rejected. Especially not by the very person who created it." The Englishman paused, watching Bruce's unmoving form leaning wearily against the kitchen sink. "If I dare say so myself, all of this indecision and anger just boils down to the choice you must eventually make. Whether or not you will chose to fight for Gotham once more.

"Now... I'm not going to tell you that you should take on the name of Batman again. Nor am I going to tell you to stand by and watch as that 'man' destroys the city. I'm merely telling you that you should do whatever you feel is _right."_

* * *

**Authors Note:**

_- - - SPECIAL THANKS TO: SaJi, my wonderful new beta who fully corrected this chapter. Without him/her (holy God, I don't know the gender!) this would be full of mistakes!- - - _

I wanted to point out several things:

_One_: This story takes place about seven months after TDK. (It's explained in the first chapter- but not in extreme detail. Actually, I think it's been mentioned in every chapter so far...)

_Two_: Everything in this chapter occurs on the same day as the bank robbery.

_Three_: Things _will _speed up, I promise. Just stick with me.

_Drunk Bruce LOVE. -spasm- _

WOW. Look at all of the reviews! Thank you so much, guys! The feedback is great- I'm so glad some of you took the time to point out my grammar mistakes. Trust me, if you point out that sort of stuff, I'm not offended _at all_. In fact, I get more _relieved _than anything else.

I hope you all continue to keep reviewing. Don't hesitate to point out grammar errors (preferably in a PM).

Thanks so much for reading.

See you all next chapter!


	4. Chapter 4

* * *

_In which a mistake is made, the Joker discovers Batman's true identity, and things take a general turn for the worst. Joker/Batman pairing. Post-TDK universe. Ongoing._

Without a Cowl

Chapter IV

* * *

With a swift, consummating flourish, the pen was reluctantly drawn up from its place upon the shoddy piece of paper and held poised several inches in the air. It lowered slightly and then rose back up, as if the writer was suddenly indecisive as to whether or not they were finished writing.

Somehow, the letter seemed a little bit too austere for his tastes. Too formal. It needed… a more _personal _touch.

Tossing the pen carelessly aside, the Joker pulled at one of the desk drawers to his left, grabbing the small knob and tugging upon it. When it failed to yield, he yanked harder (with much more force than necessary), grinning wildly as the drawer abruptly slammed open. The contents within became askew with the motion, making a small racket as inertia drew everything forward.

The drawer was chalk-full of fountain pens. Nothing else. Each writing utensil varied in color and shade, all of different types, shapes and sizes. At this time, the Joker was sure that he'd collected every color in the spectrum.

'_Perfect,' _He surmised as he reached forward, grabbing one of the pens and clicking the small button placed on the top, watching as the nib emerged from the small chasm at the tip. He brought it back to the paper, roughly scribbling on the corner.

Again, the Joker quickly scanned the note, gleaning over its contents with a much more pleased look upon his face. He appeared to be rather proud of himself.

"…_**That's **_better," He clicked the button once again and placed the pen back into its designated drawer, satisfied with his new creation. Now, all he needed was some sort of envelope…

'…_Wait.' _With a pause, the Joker had a shocking epiphany.

Speaking of _envelopes_…

Swiveling in his chair one last time, the Joker stood up, hands placed on his hips as he languidly stretched, attempting to crack his back. When he accomplished this minor exploit, he strode forward, taking no care in walking around the many items littering the floor. Instead, he went out of his way to step on them, taking a malicious sort of pleasure in seeing all of the useless little trinkets bust beneath his weight. A couple of pencils snapped, miscellaneous breakables were crushed into glassy dust, some remotes were kicked… He circled around the television sets without sparing them a glance, tuning out the potpourri of noise filtering from the speakers.

And then he was at the other side of the room, fingers rummaging through the bottom drawer of a poorly-systemized file cabinet, tearing through each folder in a crazed manner. Cluttered papers acutely jutted from their assigned folders, strewn clumsily about. It was only after five minutes of fruitless digging that the Joker growled angrily and brutally kicked the drawer shut. After doing so, he moved up to the next drawer, ruthlessly pulling at the handle. It slowly gave way, making a hideous squealing sound as it reluctantly revealed its contents.

"Now, where _is _it?" The mauve-clad man grumbled beneath his breath, plunging his hand into the disorganized pile. He took a handful of the papers and dumped them on the floor, not caring when they fanned all over the ground. Having done that, his green-flecked eyes immediately fell upon the object of his desire. With a serpentine grin, the Joker grabbed the large, mustard yellow envelope and made his way back to his desk, plopping himself in his chair as he impatiently undid the metal seal.

He turned the envelope upside down, carefully emptying the wad of papers concealed within. They slipped out as one solid mass, falling onto the surface of his desk with an audible flapping sound. The Joker pried off the paperclip holding the small stack of papers together and spread them out. He looked positively overjoyed, like a small boy receiving a large, ornately-wrapped Christmas present.

With all of this, the criminal would have no problem finding attendees for his soiree.

He could barely contain himself. This plan would undoubtedly draw Batman out.

"But.. priorities _first_!" The Joker noted in a sing-song voice as he once again retrieved his freshly-composed letter, folding it into fourths. He deposited it into the exceedingly large envelope, ushering it to the very bottom as he quickly readjusted the metal seal.

"Need a pen… _Need _a _**pen**_…." Murmured the olive-haired man, reaching back into his open pen drawer. He selected one at random, giggling excitedly as he rolled it experimentally between his fingertips before setting it upon the yellow surface.

"To… Commissioner…Jim…Gor_donnnnn_…" Licking his chops, the Joker scrawled in the final 'N,' pressing especially hard. He let the letter extend to very bottom of the envelope as a series of sharp, wheezing laughs fell from his carved lips.

Oh, what a _surprise _he was in for.

* * *

"…You seem lost."

Her voice seemed so distant. Like it was whispered from the heavens, echoing off of sheer nothingness, only carried to his ears by the seemingly nonexistent breeze. It still held that gloriously feminine lilt to it, easing the furiously raging fire of guilt that was burning him from the inside out. Her voice always calmed him for some reason. Even as a rambunctious child.

He looked down at himself, but nothing could be seen except the dirt path in which he stood upon. This ground was comfortable; well-traveled. Somehow, he felt as though he had walked it before. As if he _knew _this pathway. Just like he knew her voice.

But when he looked up, the world was skewed. Blotchy and grey, like a smeared drawing. He may have traveled this road, but he certainly hadn't traveled in this _place_.

"Are you lost, Bruce?"

Tawny eyes narrowed, as if insulted.

"What makes you think that I'm _lost_?" He questioned indignantly, voice cautious. "You're not even _here_. What makes you think-"

"I _know_… because your still walking this path," She spoke sadly. He could imagine the look of disappointment on her face- how her lips would have been drawn into that small, little frown, with her dark eyes as serious as death. "This path leads nowhere, Bruce."

His lips thinned of their own volition.

"What other choice do I have, Rachel?" He motioned wildly to his surroundings. Everything was so blurry, he couldn't tell where it ended and where it began. "It's too late. It's too late for _everything_. I can't turn back… There's no fork in this road. Not for _miles_. I don't even know which direction I'm headed, anymore."

She laughed a little.

"You always _were _a little blind."

"What…?" He began, blinking at the odd reply. But suddenly, his surroundings gained a sudden clarity that wasn't there before. He could make out trees, the sky, individual blades of grass… that's when he realized he was standing at an impasse, a split that reminded him of a serpent's tongue. If he were to continue on this road, it would be nothing more than a strait-shot. One endless, uneventful walk. There were no turns, no curves. It merely faded into the horizon.

But the one to the left…

"This is all the clearer I can make it, Bruce. You may be lost, but at least you can see where your headed." She began quietly, sighing. "Someone is waiting for you out there. The person that can fill the void that I couldn't. You may not understand me now… but you will."

That road was gnarled and twisted, winding around mountains and into darkness. It looked dangerous and down-trodden, overgrown with weeds and underbrush.

A small hand fell upon his shoulder, nearly making him jump from his skin. Faintly, he could feel long strands of hair brushing against his neck. The warmth of her body standing beside his was enough to make him smile weakly. He tried to crane his neck to the side, so that he could at least catch a glimpse of her face, but that hand rose to his cheek, silently telling him 'No.'

"What happened in the past has to _stay _in the past, Bruce. You can't change that. Even _Batman _can't change that. That part of the story has finished." Her voice was much softer, sounding almost apologetic as she spoke into his ear. "You _have _to move on. I'm not saying that you should forget me… But I… all I want is for you to be happy. That's all I've _ever _wanted."

"But, Rachel-"

"I have to leave soon, Bruce." She interrupted, sounding pained as she stepped away from him, taking that wonderful warmth with her.

"Wait-"

"I just need to tell you one thing, before I go." Her hand lifted only slightly. "No matter what you choose, you have to be careful. You have to be _careful_, Bruce… and protect the ones that you still have left."

"Why are you telling me all of this, Rachel?" Bruce whispered, at a loss.

"Because you _obviously _need some guidance. I know Alfred's been trying, but you can be so dense at times." She snorted, as if the answer was obvious. Her hand was pulled fully away. "…T-Take care, Bruce. And please… be _safe_…"

"Will I get to talk to you again?"

There was a lengthy pause, wherein Bruce worriedly began to believe that Rachel had left him.

"…I hope so."

* * *

Morning greeted him with a bleakness that was positively dismal. The shades had been drawn, allowing the overwhelmingly gray atmosphere of the outside world to suffocate any color preexisting in his bedroom. Rain steadily pattered against the massive floor-to-ceiling windowpanes, like the drum roll at an execution incessantly droning in the distance.

The weather, however, wasn't the first thing the young Wayne took notice of as his eyes blearily blinked open. More often than not, splitting headaches had a tendency to obscure one's vision to a significant extent; Bruce had experienced them frequently enough at one point to have a thorough understanding of this matter. And at the moment, he could see nothing but patches of darkness spinning dizzyingly fast before his eyes, making him nauseous.

"Oh, for _fuck's sake_-" Hissed the man, rolling over in his bed as his head throbbed. He screwed his eyes shut, hoping it would ease away the pirouetting spots. It felt like a herd of horses was stampeding throughout his skull; the clatter of their hooves being accompanied by very acute, very _intense _spikes of pain.

Admittedly, most of his headaches were not alcohol-induced. It mostly had to do with taking sharp punches to the face and the occasional slamming of intimate objects against the back of his skull… This time, he knew that he deserved whatever punishment he was dealt. Over-consumption was an activity he didn't indulge in too often; he was one who preferred the pleasant buzz that came with only a couple of drinks. He'd gone overboard. Yes, his reasons may have been legitimate, but that still didn't justify his stupidity…

Bruce attempted to open his eyelids once more; this time opting to do it slowly.

Suddenly, the room flashed a brilliant, blinding white as lighting pierced through the clouds, shortly followed by a tremulous crack of thunder. The intensity of the sound made him reel, eyes closing at the agonizing twinge of pain resonating in his skull. He groaned, burrowing his head beneath the covers.

The steady rapping at the door blended with the gentle humming of pouring rain pelting against glass; the suffering business tycoon hugged a pillow around his head in an attempt to muffle the riotous clamor. Slowly and noiselessly, the whitewashed door inched open as Alfred pushed himself through the threshold, a sterling silver tray in hand. As he walked in, he peered down at his bedridden ward with a beguiling smile.

He approached the king-sized bed, gently placing the platter onto the nightstand. After setting it down, he turned on his heel, preparing to leave.

There was another flash of lightening.

"Alfred…"

"Oh. You're awake, Master Bruce?" The older man stopped, looking mildly surprised as he turned around. He hadn't expected the brunette to be up at least until sometime around afternoon.

"What's that…" Croaked the Wayne in a pained voice, hand emerging from the bed sheets to point in the vicinity of the tray.

"Pain relievers, Master Wayne," The Englishman shot an all-knowing smile down at the lump hidden beneath the covers.

"_Good_." Relieved, Bruce rolled himself back onto his back with a sharp intake of breath. Holy God, he was so _stiff_. Even the slightest shift in posture made his muscles scream in protest. After a couple seconds of getting himself situated, he tossed away a portion of the blankets and begrudgingly sat up, using his arms to support his weight.

"I took the initiative to grab whatever painkillers we had in our medicine cabinet." The older man told him.

Bruce reached out and snagged a bottle of Aleve and Advil, shaking out a couple tablets from each. With these pills, he knew he'd probably be feeling better in no time. Tossing them in his mouth, the billionaire grasped the half-filled glass of water that was also on the tray, gulping down the contents in record time and setting it back down a little harder than necessary.

"Will that be all, Master Wayne?" Questioned Alfred, bending down to grab the tray once more.

"You can leave that there… in case I need them later." Notified the man, brows drawing together as his head throbbed once more.

"No breakfast then, I take it?" Pulling back, Alfred straitened himself.

The Wayne blanched at the very idea.

"Ah… not today…. Maybe supper, if I'm feeling up to it." Easing back again, Bruce lowered himself back to his pillows, sighing as his head met the pliable cushions. The rain outside seemed to be deterring a little, making the atmosphere slightly more serene. For this, he was thankful. "Hey, Alfred."

"Yes, Master Bruce?" Inquired the older man.

"I.. I had a dream about Rachel." A soft chuckle fell from the hung-over man. "Can't remember much about it, though…"

The older man's gaze softened a little.

"Get some more sleep, Master Wayne."

"…Yeah."

Alfred, walking as quietly as possible, extricated himself from the room and shut the door behind him.

As soon as the older man left, Bruce closed his eyes, swiftly succumbing to the darkened veil of sleep.

Hours slipped by, passing like mere seconds, and suddenly hazel eyes were open again, dark eyelashes fluttering as the world came into focus. The muted grey light had faded, leaving his bedroom significantly warmer in hue. A lutescent, sunset yellow painted the room, reflecting off of the glassy statuettes adorning the walls. The stark shadow of the wooden window casing bled onto the carpet, stretching towards the furthermost wall and tattooing itself there.

'_How long have I been sleeping?' _Bruce wondered, a frown tugging upon his lips as he lethargically drug his muscled thighs over the side of his mattress, letting them dangle in midair for a moment. He slowly became acclimated to the dramatic change in temperature; the air being significantly cooler than the comforting warmth his bed. If he didn't know any better, he'd say that Alfred may have accidentally left a window open. Looking outside, the billionaire could make out the familiar molten orange orb precariously hovering just above the horizon. Oddly enough, at this time of the day, the sun reminded him of an enormous egg yolk hanging by a string from the blazing red sky.

Now that he thought about it... if the sun was setting, then that meant he had been asleep all day. Somehow, this thought unsettled him.

Placing his feet upon the wood-paneled floors, the brunette stood from his bed and stretched a little bit. Surprisingly, his muscles didn't ache at all, like he'd expected them to. Despite his tired state of mind, he felt almost… rejuvenated. After taking a moment to yawn, he walked exhaustedly towards his bedroom door, bringing his hand to the doorknob and pulling on it.

The door gave way without hesitation, swinging on its hinges as he drug himself into the hallway, scratching at his side.

"Jesus, it's _freezing_…" Shirtless and only dressed in a pair of flax, navy-blue pajama pants, Bruce shivered, bringing his hands up to his arms and rubbing at them. Slowly, the young scion made his way down the marble staircase, callused hand gliding across the length of the gold-plated railing.

"Alfred?" Bruce called out, voice quivering slightly. With each step, the air grew more and more frigid; to the point where Bruce could see his breath fanning out before him- pale, cloudy and then _gone_. As cold as it was, it felt as though all of the windows in the entire manor had been opened.

"Alfred!" He tried again, pausing in mid step to listen. There was no reply. Maybe the man had gone out to pick up some more groceries?

When he got off of the stairs, Bruce rounded the corner, intent on finding the source of the draft. Which, after a couple minutes of quiet and cold meandering, eventually led him to one of the older kitchens of the manor; Alfred's personal favorite. It was considerably smaller than the other kitchen, the one that Bruce preferred, with a much homier sense of décor. The floors and countertops were built from richly-colored wood and the walls were lined with decorated textiles that varied in color. His mom had liked this kitchen- she spent a lot of time with Alfred here. That's why he'd had it rebuilt- only adding commodities such as an updated, energy-efficient stove and other designated appliances.

The room was lined with windows; all of which overlooked the gardens and the greenhouse… all of which were wide _open_, Bruce realized, eyes narrowing.

Shivering again, he shuffled forward and began the tedious task of closing each one, locking them for good measure. He'd managed to close off four of them when he'd heard a small, almost inaudible sound. Had he not paused between shutting the window and locking it, he would not heard the subdued noise.

But it sounded like a door, eerily groaning shut, followed by a muted click.

It could've been the wind, the more logical part of Bruce's brain retorted. After all, the windows had been left open. Surely the breeze could've caused a loose door to move just the tiniest bit.

Wait… hadn't he shut the doors already, on his way in?

He heard it again; this time, it was louder. Closer. It was one of the doors just outside of the kitchen.

Glued to his spot, the brown-eyed man stood as still as a statue as his gaze worked back and forth. His instincts screamed that it wasn't Alfred, because his mentor always notified him before entry. Always. A chill raked up his spine, bringing rise to goose bumps.

That's when Bruce caught sight of the blue-handled knife in the sink; blade glistening promisingly in the waning daylight. He began to reach for it, hand held out-

"That's _mine_," hissed a voice from directly behind him, hot breath skimming over his nape. A strong, nimble hand roughly grasped at Bruce's hip, the other falling just between his bare shoulder blades, forcing Bruce against the counter and easily folding him over it. Reflexively, the billionaire's arms began to flail about as he grunted in shock, trying to hit his assailant or catch a piece of his clothing, but the hand at his hip moved away, grabbing his right hand and holding it behind his back. The hand holding his upper body in place vanished, finding his other flailing hand and pinning it back as well. After that, the man managed keep both of Bruce's trembling wrists held in one hand, while his free hand ventured back to its previous post, pushing Bruce over the counter once more.

"Would you look at _that_?" The voice whispered condescendingly into his ear. "I've got you _now_." It sung giddily.

Why couldn't Bruce identify that voice? He _knew _who it belonged to, he really did, but somehow it had escaped him. He just couldn't quite put his finger on it.

A feral growl escaped Bruce as his face fell flush against the cool counter top, struggling valiantly against the others vice grip. He attempted to voice his protest, but it died somewhere in his throat as a clothed, heated body leaned atop his, pushing him down even further.

"You're so _tense_…" That voice apprised vehemently, lips grazing the sensitive shell of his ear purposefully. Something dark within Bruce stirred, sending a furious wave of heat coursing through his veins, where it pooled in his lower abdomen. The sensation had him closing his eyes, breath hitching slightly as the hand at his back moved, fingers dipping between the planes of his shoulder blades and moving further south. "Heehee. You _like _this?"

"Get… _off_…!" The pinned man ground out, infuriated as the other continued to make advances on him, despite his prone state. A searing hot tongue darted out, tracing the edge of Bruce's jaw and following to the very tip of his ear. Suddenly, the temperature of the room seemed to have spiked, despite the fact that some windows were still left ajar. Bruce groaned as that hand fell at his waist, lingering there. Dear God, was he honestly getting _aroused _by this?

"Well, well, _well_. If I'd known all that it took to bring you down was some… ah, simple _touching_, I'd of done this a long , long time ago, _Bat_man."

Wait.

"What did you just-?"

Those rough hands that held him seemed to vaporize, along with the body leaning atop of his own. The loss of contact had Bruce crying out in shock as his arms suddenly fell, liberated and flaccid, at his sides. That's when the floor gave way beneath him, pitch black darkness swallowing him as he plummeted down, down, _down_…

"Master Wayne?"

Suddenly, Bruce shot strait up in bed, breathing heavily as if he'd just run a long distance. He struggled to get air, chest heaving violently as his head spun. Bruce could vaguely make out the familiar shape of a person standing at the foot of his bed.

"You were having a nightmare."

'_What?' _His psyche shrilled as sweat trickled down his brow, images of his dream flickering like an endless home video before his eyes, not letting him forget.

* * *

The steel-floored warehouse was illuminated with white, phosphorescent lights. One after the other, the tubular bulbs lined the enormous ceiling, casting an uncomfortably sterile and tense kind of glow, not unlike a hospital.

With a mechanical hiss, the rust-red entrance began to lift upwards, like the enormous blade of a guillotine being pulled up by its rope. It opened half-way, allowing some natural light to pour into the empty repository. Four white vans and a large semi slowly pulled in; the brisk, early-November wind blowing some small fall leaves in as the vehicles came to a stop. The gentle hum of their engines died sequentially as the keys were pulled from their ignitions, side doors of the white vans loudly rolling open.

The storage-room's entrance let out a low groan as it began to close once more.

Masked, masculine figures steadily emerged from the opened van doors, the sound of their feet shuffling and scuffing the metal floors as they all lined up, one by one. All together, there were about twenty clown-guised men. They stood shoulder-to-shoulder with their heads bowed slightly and their hands folded behind their backs.

The semi truck's door swung open on its rusted hinges loud creak.

Out hopped the Joker, feet slamming to the ground with an "OOMF!" falling from his lips. He held his arms out, spread-eagled, as though he had just landed a flawlessly-executed acrobatic routine. Turning swiftly on his heel, the painted man began his strut towards his newly-acquired band of henchmen.

This particular batch appeared promising.

"Kiddies, Kiddies, _Kiddies_…" He murmured excitedly as he stood before them all, watching as their shoulders squared a bit more and their heads lowered further, chins resting against their collar bones.

"Lets get down to business." Clapping his gloved hands together with finality, the Joker turned back and smiled at his henchmen. "C'mon, c'mon. Get them out. I wanna _see _'em."

Four of the henchmen jumped slightly and ran back to their respective vans, as if demons were biting at their ankles. After a couple of moments, they reemerged, each clown dragging their own individual hostage behind them. The hostages were bound and gagged, eyes widening as their gazes fell upon the Joker, who merely grinned jovially back at them, head cocked at a slight angle.

"Oh, very _good_!" He whooped, watching in amusement as his henchmen brought the figures forward, dropping them nonchalantly onto the floor. The Joker made a waving motion with his glove-clad hand. Collectively, the henchman looked oddly at one another, but hopped back into their vans none-the-less. Their engines hummed to life, exhaust pipes spitting out smoke.

The warehouse entrance opened once more and the vans careened forward, tires squealing on the steel floor. The Joker watched them speed off, the entrance closing behind them after a moment.

He turned back to the four cowering visages trembling upon the floor, fixing them with an intense look.

"All of you guys share _one _thing in common… You're all owners of highly-esteemed corporations with, ah… _connections _to Gotham's mob. I wouldn't be surprised if you knew each other!" He trotted towards them with a skip to his step. "Which is _why _you've been selected for this wonderfully wonderful new plot of mine, ya dirty little corporate _shit_heads…

"Since none of ya know how to play by the rules of your own selfish... _monopolies_, you'll just have to learn to play by _mine_." Bending down, the Joker brought his face close to one of the men upon the floor. He was older; wrinkled, gray-haired and a bit on the overweight side. "I'm throwing a great, big _charity _party, and you four are going to be the _hosts_. I know that you are all very aware of your… individual situations. If ya don't play by the _rules _of my game, heehee…

"Well, let's not get into that, 'kay?" He implored sagely, ruby red lips puckering a little bit as one of his hands disappeared beneath the lapels of his plum-colored trench. After a moment, he brought out a couple small papers. "I've got the list of attendees right _here_." He flapped the wad of papers back and forth.

"And, ahm… copies of the invitations you'll be sending to each partygoer. _Somewhere_…" The painted man's hand once again disappeared into his jacket, rummaging around. He brought out another wad of papers, looking proud. "Right here. Now, this 'powwow' needs to be as authentic as possible. So, if I hear that you're trying to, ah, _cheat _or... break the rules in any way? It wont. Be. _Pretty_.

"Each of you will have to contribute twenty million dollars to this charity program... And that's _all_. I'm sure that sum seems rather _small _to you, so be grateful that the fee is so, hmm, _minuscule_. After the party is over, if you've followed my instructions _exactly _as I've told ya… You'll be _free _to go! Your precious family members'll get to go home safe and sound, your companies will be in the clear, and _hey_. Maybe we'll even be best _buddies_ after all of this is over.

"You all have _one week_. I want _these _people," The Joker motioned to the list he'd made once more, "to have their invitations, and I want them to be getting ready." Standing up, the Joker darkened eyes peered down at the frightened hostages, unable to stifle his giggle. Thus far, everything was flowing marvelously. The excitement was eating away at him like battery acid. All of the cogs and clockwork of this ingenious plan were meshing with perfect synergy... and he couldn't have been any more ecstatic.

"Now that we've got _that _covered… I'll personally be escorting you back to your, ah, _jobs. _But don't you fret! Even if I'm not there, I'll be _watching_…"

* * *

"Hey, Jim?" Barbara called, voice raising over the children's playing and the television's consistent garble.

Gordon had been in his study, carefully filling out reports. The task always proved to be tedious.

"What, Honey?" Gordon yelled back, eyes narrowing on the particularly boring report he was currently working on.

"You've got a, uh… You've got a letter here!" She replied loudly. "You wanna come and get it, please?"

The middle-aged man sighed.

"Can't you just bring it here?" He questioned, setting down his pencil as he glared at the door.

"I'm trying to make dinner, Jim! I don't want to burn the hamburger…" She explained huffily.

_"Fine_," Gordon pushed himself away from his desk and made his way out of the room, shutting the door a little harder than he probably should have. Grumpily, he made his way into the kitchen, the smell of cooking food wafting into his nostrils. In response, his stomach growled rather loudly, reminding him that he hadn't eaten since lunch. Damn, he was hungry. "Where-?"

"On the table, Jim." Barbara answered for him, smiling a bit as she jostled the chopped up hamburger that was sizzling on the stove.

When Gordon's eyes fell upon the massive envelope sitting harmlessly upon the dinner table, a feeling of uncertainty crept upon him.

'TO COMMISIONER JIM GORDON' was messily scrawled upon its surface in large, bold and jittery purple letters. It looked like a child's handwriting. Grabbing it, Gordon held it in his hands and flipped it over, only to find a metal clasp upon the lip. He undid it and opened the envelope, peering inside. At the very bottom, wedged in the corner, his spectacle-covered eyes could make out a small, folded piece of paper.

Sticking his hand in, Gordon pulled out the tattered paper and unfolded it. Suddenly, his hands were trembling.

DEAREST JIM,

YOU ARE CORDIALLY INVITED

TO THE FUNERALS OF THE PEOPLE WHO WILL DIE

THIS COMING FRIDAY.

WHEN? WHERE? HOW?

THAT IS SOMETHING YOU WILL

HAVE TO FIGURE OUT ON YOUR OWN.

THE CLOCK IS TICKING, COMMISSIONER.

TIME IS RUNNING OUT.

The letter slipped from Gordon's suddenly lax grip, fluttering silently to the floor.

"Jim?" Barbara set down her spatula upon the counter, turning to her husband with a worried look. "Jim, what's wrong?"

That's when she looked at the letter on the floor.

In the lower right-hand corner of the telegram was a small drawing scribbled in crimson; what she presumed to be the writer's makeshift signature. A drawing of two darkened eyes above a dripping, glasglow grin.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

An especially difficult chapter to write, in my opinion. I've been busy working and school's gonna be starting... a week from today. I'll try to get as many updates as possible in that time, because when school starts, it'll be difficult to find time to work on this.

Jesus! 2K HITS?! 60 REVIEWS?! IN _THREE CHAPTERS_?! YOU GUYS ARE FREAKIN' _AMAZING_! I love being able to hear your opinions and just... _man_. And as for the grammar critiques?! Thank you guys so much for taking the time to note those errors! I went in and fixed every single one that you guys notified me of. Please continue to do so!

On another note, here's where the story picks up pace. Just a forewarning. Not that any of you really _need _one. YAY FOR SPEEDING UP-NESS. OHMAI I'VE HAD WAYYYY TOO MUCH COFFEEEEEEEE.

(Breathes heavily.)

_Yeah_...

I think the rating _will _have to go up... I didn't anticipate this story being so dark. So full of swearing. And... _woah_. I haven't been contemplating adding lime-lemon-y content. I _HAVEN'T_. I _SWEAR_!! (denial)

Hopefully I don't lose any viewers? -,-

Well. Er... whatever.

Thank you all for reading, I'll see you all next chapter!

Please be sure to review!

* * *


	5. Chapter 5

* * *

_In which a mistake is made, the Joker discovers Batman's true identity, and things take a general turn for the worst. Joker/Batman pairing. Post-TDK universe. Ongoing._

Without a Cowl

Chapter V

* * *

It was Thursday.

Thursday; and the Joker was anxious to the point of fidgeting. Constantly wringing his wrists, pacing about frantically. The excitement had manifested itself deep beneath the pores of his flesh, writhing like an overzealous child eagerly awaiting a gift of enormous proportions. It was a living organism, thriving like cancer within him, spreading the infectious anticipation to his very _core._

His play date was so dangerously close he could _taste _it.

The hench-clowns were acutely aware of the Boss' disposition; if not a little disturbed by the odd change in demeanor. They watched as the Joker jumpily made his way about their hideout, barking orders out of the blue, murmuring broken sentences to himself. Occasionally, the painted man would plop himself upon the floor and just aimlessly stare forward, examining the peeling, water-stained wallpaper intensely. Surprisingly, very few of the henchmen had been killed over the past few days, which was a very rare occurrence. Despite this, the wiser, more experienced of the clown-guised men tended to gravitate conveniently close the nearest exits, talking covertly amongst themselves in hushed voices. Usually, when the Boss' killing sprees lapsed like this, it often meant that if there was even the slightest upheaval in the his plan, the _tiniest _glitch, a great portion of them wouldn't live long enough to see the outcome.

The Joker couldn't fathom what kind of urgency Gotham City's Police Department was feeling. He knew Gordon had received his little _love _note; knew that the commissioner had undoubtedly headed strait for his workplace to commence his rigorous search. There had been no news broadcasts, just as he'd foreseen. God forbid the uproar that would ensue should such a thing occur.

People reacted much more accordingly _after _dramatic and potentially lethal things occurred, the criminal had learned. They were calmer, more collected. If they knew beforehand? Knew the intricate, nitty-gritty details? Well… everyone _panicked_. Although the Joker took thorough enjoyment in seeing others in a state of absolute hysteria, that wasn't his goal at the moment.

In a way, it was like fishing. And he was angling for the biggest catch of them all. This plan was simply his lure; a particularly tantalizing morsel to catch the Kevlar-clad vigilante's attention. Initially, he'd hoped that Gordon's office would had been intimidated into putting out the bat signal of theirs and maybe make his life a little bit _easier_, but there was no reason to dwell upon that. If they wanted to play hardball, he'd play hardball. He incited the challenge in the first place; he was more than ready to meet them head to head and plow through them.

Maybe he underestimated the GCPD, though? Maybe Gordon was a little bit more ballsy than he once thought…. Maybe they'd attempt to bring the Joker down without the Batman and take a whack at cleaning up their own spilt milk. The thought was an amusing one, to say the least.

The Joker idled against a nearby window, kohl-lined eyes peering emptily forward as one of his glove-glad hands gripped tightly at the mold-encrusted sill, the other prying open the dust-covered blinds. A sliver of sunlight pooled in, catching on the tendrils of his seaweed green hair. His roots were dirt brown, slow fading into a murky, impure sort of emerald, giving him a fresh-from-the-grunge sort of appearance. It was a look people envied nowadays; or so he'd heard on the streets.

His quiet countenance wasn't caused by the excitement he felt, nor was it the anxiety. If that were the case, he'd be blowing the brain pulp from his henchman at this point in time, just for kicks. But the week-long introspectiveness was due to something far more… _disconcerting_.

Simply put, the Crown Prince of Crime was yearning to see his counterpart and engage in a long-overdue duel. Exchange some kicks and punches. A verbal spar. _Anything_. Admittedly, somewhere deep down in the hollows of his chest, the Joker missed the crime-fighting rodent with an intensity that was downright overwhelming. It felt as though someone had taken a vital piece of himself and hid it somewhere entirely out of reach. It was something that even the excitement that riddled his bones couldn't entirely obscure. It frustrated him. He didn't enjoy the feeling. He didn't like people hiding things that _belonged _to him.

How could the Batman have ever given up his place? Surely he wasn't that _weak_. It would take much more to break the vigilante- he was purely brassbound, after all. A die-hard sort of guy. Much like a cockroach, getting stomped on repeatedly and somehow still miraculously managing to twitch a little.

What could've driven Batboy to quitting? The Joker had heard that the FBI and other… _assorted _organizations, were attempting to find the Caped Crusader and bring him to their self-dubbed 'justice.' Maybe the Bat's self-preservation instincts finally kicked in?

Well, it didn't matter, he supposed. The one thing that held any significance at the moment was getting Batboy into his suit once again.

'_Tomorrow,' _He reminded himself again, pushing away from the window. The painted man turned around and made his way to one of the tables set up in the corner of the room. The plastic, dingy green coverlet was ripped in several places. A deck of cards was strewn carelessly upon its surface, some of the cards were face-up and others were face-down. Someone had lost a game; that someone had thrown the cards in frustration.

For now, he decided to try to keep himself preoccupied by setting himself in one of the old chairs pushed beneath the table. He eased into it, working himself out of his violet coat and folding it over the back of the chair. It was too warm in here to be wearing the heavy thing.

The harlequin had been staring into the sunlight for too long, and now everything was incredibly, indescribably dark, making it difficult to discern different objects from one another. Squinting, the Joker turned a little bit in his chair, staring at the door. If he strained, he could hear the slight shuffling sound of his henchmen moving about in the other room.

Looking back to the table, the Joker began scooping up all of the cards, flipping them accordingly until the pile was back in order. Swiftly, he swept up the deck into his gloved hands, weighing the small mass in one of his palms as he stood back up.

He wanted to play a game.

When their boss slammed open the door to their room, the slate of wood rocketed on its hinges from the sheer force. All of the henchmen froze, halting whatever activities they were participating in, none of them dared to take a breath. The veterans of the group slowly inched closer to the exits, just in case.

"Which of you guys wants to play?" The Joker invited, shuffling the deck playfully between his fingers.

None of them were willing participants, that's for sure. The game included nine of his jumpier henchman (all of which were hand-picked) and himself. They all had somehow managed to squeeze around the small green table that was pushed to the corner of the room. Beforehand, he had two of his men pull the table to the center of the room, not caring when the legs left hideous scratch marks on the floor. The Joker had kept the chair with his trench coat draped upon it, tugging it lazily behind him and once again sitting in it.

"I just _love _card games, don't you?" The Joker squirmed with renewed fervor, thrill pumping through his veins as he tapped the deck on the table, relishing in the harsh clicking sound it made. His henchmen winced, bodies growing rigid at the harsh clatter. The vested man dully noticed this, feigning sympathy. "Oh, don't worry, darlings! I'm not gonna hurt _any _of ya. Just consider this a small… _break_. We got a _big _day ahead of us tomorrow."

Expertly, the Joker began dealing the cards to each individual at the table.

* * *

The pen was ticking against the ceramic mug; it had been for the past fifteen minutes. Somehow she'd managed to tune it out, focusing on the computer screen before her. But now that her concentration was broken, so casually tossed out the window, Detective Lyndelle couldn't stand it any longer.

Tap Tap Tap Tap Tap Tap Tap

"Commissioner, with all due respect… could you please stop that?"

"Hm?"

Tap Tap Tap Tap

"_That_," she elaborated, eyes narrowing at his pen-holding fingertips.

"Oh! Sorry," Gordon blurted out, flushing a bit at his absent mindedness. His mind had been wandering to far-off places; he had a tendency to fidget when that occurred. He placed the pen down on the desk. "Did you find anything?"

Detective Margaret Lyndelle had been in the force for twelve years. After Gordon was informed that Ramirez was the one who had taken Rachel Dawes to the Joker, he had no choice but to fire the woman. Lyndelle was promoted and had taken Ramirez's place shortly thereafter. The Commissioner had been working with her for the past couple months- she proved to be an immense asset. The woman was incredibly intelligent and she took her job extremely seriously. Over time, she'd gradually earned his respect.

"Commissioner…." The detective sighed a little bit, looking disheartened as she turned her attention back to her computer screen. "You've got to understand, we haven't really been given a lot to work off of-"

"I _do _understand that."

"We did diagnostics on fibers found on the paper… and found nothing. There's isn't anything peculiar in the way the letter's been written; there's no hidden messages or codes. And there are no particularly large events taking place today, either. Nothing that we've been able to confirm, anyhow."

"Then we're missing something."

Lyndelle had the grace to look mildly offended.

"Sir, I really don't think-"

"You don't know the Joker like I do, Detective."

"No. No, I don't." The woman retorted, looking dejected as she slumped a little further in her computer chair. '_Thankfully_…' She thought sourly, running a hand through her hair.

It didn't take a rocket scientist to comprehend the fact that the young detective was just as exhausted as Gordon. Just as scared. They'd made no progress over the past week; no discoveries since the letter had been delivered to the Commissioner's doorstep. They thought tensions were high in the office after the Joker had escaped Arkham? It didn't even _compare _to what they all were currently feeling now. The heaviness in the air was almost suffocating. Instead of the constant cacophony of noise from before, an eerie sort of silence had taken its place.

"Commissioner, I don't suppose you ever considered-"

"I _have _considered, and I decided against it." Gordon grumbled, gaze suddenly shifting away as if he were distracted. She understood his aversion to the sudden change in topic, but she figured that if there ever was an appropriate time to bring it up, it would be now, considering how dire the situation was.

"Oh?" Lyndelle looked taken aback. "Why?"

Gordon didn't reply for a minute or two. He appeared to be plotting out exactly what he wanted to say in his mind. The woman waited patiently, donning a contemplative look.

"It's... complicated, Detective."

'_Wait. __**What**__?' _She pursed her lipstick-coated lips, not buying the 'complicated' spiel for a moment. That song had been sung too many times.

"In the end, _everything's _complicated, Commissioner." Lyndelle coaxed lightly, fully rotating in her chair to examine the middle aged man before her. Her gaze hardened. She _needed _to know why the Batman couldn't help them. The Caped Crusader could _stop _the Joker. He was probably the only one that could, and they were both painfully aware of it.

Silence reigned for another moment, until Gordon reluctantly conceded to the silent demand.

"First off, Detective… You have to understand that Batman sacrificed a lot for this city. More than any one of us could ever fathom." The man started, staring intently at the detective before him.

"A little while after we had the Joker imprisoned in Arkham… Batman and I made an agreement.

"I wont lie- we had been working together for quite some time. There were still criminals that needed to be captured, and our department was too busy trying to mend all of the damage that _psycho _inflicted upon the city to focus on anything else…

"After the mess was cleaned up a bit, we had search teams constantly trying to arrest Batman. I realized that it was too dangerous to keep working with him. I couldn't risk my job… I have a family to support, after all. And it was too dangerous for him, too, with _my _guys out, trying to apprehend him. Even _kill _him, if necessary."

Lyndelle looked deeply intrigued, brows tugging downwards.

"I told him that we, Gotham's citizens and police, had to try and take care of the city ourselves before anyone else could. That we couldn't depend on someone who was at the top of our Most Wanted list to do the work _for us_. It… it just wasn't right. I asked him to step down, because I knew that it was no longer his responsibility, but ours. He was angry, but I think he understood.

"You see, we have to be able to depend on ourselves before depending on others, Detective. That's why we can't call for the Batman. Because we both agreed that Gotham has to try and save itself for a change.

"It'll be difficult. No one ever said that it would be easy. But I'm not going to let this city go down without a fight."

"So… we're going to wait and try to figure this out on our own?" Queried the brunette, voice taking on an enlightened tone. She felt much better now, having a more thorough understanding of what was going on.

"For now," Gordon answered unevenly. "But if things continue at this rate…I can't be sure. I don't even know how to _contact _him."

"If anything, Commissioner, _he'll _contact _you_." Lyndelle noted wisely, biting at one of her rogue cuticles.

The police commissioner look pensive for a moment.

"…Well," He couldn't argue against that fact. It was probably true. "I suppose you're right about that one, Detective."

"Aren't I always?" Leaning back in her chair, the dark-haired woman gave him a lofty smile. "Anyway, let's get back to work. I'm sure that we'll find _something_."

* * *

The terrifyingly realistic dreams Bruce experienced the week prior were discarded as anomalies; bizarre mental images inspired by his alcohol-induced haze. They were not so easily forgotten, but the Wayne eagerly returned to his regular routine all the same. His schedule had been mildly altered due to the recent… _events_; the billionaire had inserted an hour of free time at both noon and six, taking this time to watch the news.

Nothing out of the ordinary had occurred over the past week, and quite frankly, Bruce was becoming nervous. Deep down, he understood that all of this was the calm before the proverbial storm. Something big was coming, he wasn't exactly sure what, but he knew the Joker would probably play a large role.

He had been working in yard for most of the day. The fruits of his labor left him covered head-to-toe with dirt and a significantly smaller pile of rubble to deal with. Today proved to be the perfect day for some home improvement- the entire week had been riddled with icy rain and frigid temperatures. Vaguely, he began to wonder when the snow would arrive. With how the temperatures had suddenly plummeted, it was odd that the ground wasn't dusted with white.

Anyhow, today was warmer- forty three degrees and sunny. The wind had died down, resulting in the atmosphere feeling even more comfortable. Pulling a sweatshirt over his head and kicking on a pair of worn, heavy-duty boots, the Wayne trudged outside at the first light of morning, heading for the eyesore of a truck parked at the other side of the manor. He opened the passenger door and found himself inhaling the stale, dusty air within; the old car smell. Smiling a little, he pulled out a shovel, his working gloves and other tools he thought would be necessary for cleaning out the remaining mess in the south eastern corner.

Three hours of consecutive shoveling, replanting and uprooting left him looking like he'd been rolling in the mud all morning- which didn't bother him any; he had grown accustomed to it.

Bruce looked upon his work with an impressed expression, peeling off his work gloves and tossing them to the ground. Catching his breath, he wiped away the sweat beading at his brow with his forearm. His body felt much looser, his muscles were less tense. It wasn't as difficult to breath as it had been in the past week.

A twig snapped.

Some footsteps followed, crunching on dry the leafs scattered upon the ground.

Turning around, the billionaire greeted his mentor with a wave. The older man was wearing a tweed jacket, scarf and leather gloves; the usual fall attire. When Alfred was standing directly beside his ward, he chuckled a little bit, appearing pleasantly surprised.

"Look at all the progress you've made," He asserted, patting Bruce on the shoulder. "You're parents would be very proud."

Bruce felt elated at the affirmation.

"You think?" He asked, acting as though he wasn't quite convinced.

The other saw through the façade, arching his brow a little. Pining for attention? Master Bruce? He knew what to counter that with. Something that would surely knock him down a few pegs.

"Will you be attending the Darcy Corporation's charity dinner this evening, Master Bruce?" Alfred questioned. The sudden shift of Bruce's expression was humorous; it looked as though the other man had been forced to swallow something bitter.

Oh. _That_.

"I forgot all about that," the hazel-eyed playboy informed, looking thoughtful as he shoved his hands into his pockets.

The gray-haired man shook his head laughingly. He had assumed as much; he had the younger man's personality down to a science. The billionaire's mind was so preoccupied with other things that it couldn't linger on anything as diminutive as some charity party.

"So I thought," Alfred certified with a deadpan tone. "Would you like to me to prepare your tux, then?"

That wasn't exactly what Bruce had in mind, but…

"Couldn't hurt, I suppose," He sounded less than enthusiastic as he took a couple steps forward, bending over to pick up a rock. He rolled it around experimentally in his hand, tossing it into the air and catching it. After doing that, he eyed the area before him and chucked the small stone. It looked like he was trying to make it skip across the grass.

"Alright, then." Excusing himself, Alfred left the Wayne to his own devices and made his way back into the mansion.

* * *

Freshly shaven and showered, Bruce stepped from his bathroom with cloud of white steam billowing behind him. A clean, fluffy blue towel was tied at his waist, hanging loosely from his hips. The man sighed as he made his way into his bedroom, eyeing the clothing delicately spread out upon the surface of his bed.

He shivered as he treaded across the room, feet leaving small puddles on the wood floors with each step.

'_My suit,' _He prodded at the article of clothing with distaste; he wasn't in the mood to go out tonight. But Alfred had RSVP-ed, so… he didn't really have a choice in the matter. Reluctantly, the brunette tugged off the towel and used it to dry the excess droplets of moisture from his skin. He then took the cloth and dried off his hair a bit, holding it in place for a minute or two.

Firstly, he slipped on his dress shirt, pushing his arms through the sleeves and working the buttons upwards until he reached the collar. From there he moved to his drawers and slacks, pulling them upon his waist, he tucked in his dress shirt and prodded at it until he was comfortable. After that came the gray vest, which proved simple enough to slide into.

"Now, where's that _tie_?" Bruce grumbled to himself as he moved towards his dresser. He opened the first drawer, rummaging around momentarily as he searched for the proper tie. Preferably something that matched. His hand sought purchase around a silky piece of cloth; Bruce pulled it out and examined it with a critical eye. It would do, he supposed. He lifted his chin and began to work the tie around his neck, expertly tying it into an elegant knot and folding his collar over it. Lastly, he found a pair of socks, sat himself upon his bed and slipped them on.

He then fluidly swiped up his blazer and walked from his room, the steady thumping of his sock-covered feet articulating his each and every step. The billionaire swept down the stairs and rounded the corner, heading towards the older kitchen, intent on finding Alfred.

"Alfred?" Bruce pushed open the kitchen door.

"Ready so soon, Master Wayne?" Alfred busily stirred the stew placed upon the stove, not looking up from the simmering pot.

"Ah, yeah." The Wayne scratched uneasily at his scalp.

"Very good. Will you be taking the Rolls, then?"

"Actually," he began, pulling a face. He hadn't really put much thought into that one... but since the older man was taking the time to ask… "I was thinking about taking out the Lamborghini for a spin. You mind?"

The older man snorted. It wasn't like it was _his _car. He did appreciate the sentiment though; it was nice to know that his opinion was valued every so often.

"Just be sure not to trash it like its predecessor, Master Bruce." Alfred advised jokingly. That particular event _had _been a tragic one, the older man recalled with a vague air of melancholy. Bruce laughed at this comment.

"You forget, Alfred," Began the business tycoon, "that that was to save a certain _someone _from imminent death. Surely you don't mean to say-"

"Ah, but you could have taken any other car in your arsenal."

Bruce grinned wolfishly as he began to make his way out of the room.

"Valid point. I'll be sure to not completely total it, then."

Well, wasn't _that _good news?

"Oh, and Master Bruce?" Alfred called. The Wayne stopped at the door, briefly glancing back at the other. "Do try to enjoy yourself, alright?"

"I'll try to," the other replied.

Ten minutes later, Bruce was pulling open the door to his Lamborghini and sliding himself into the driver's seat without a missing a beat. He placed the keys into the ignition and listened to the engine as it whirred to life. The heater blasted warm air at his face, he buckled his seatbelt and glanced over his shoulder as he pulled from the garage. Pressing on the gas, the sleek, onyx vehicle pulled forward from the driveway, wheels crunching across the gravel.

The radio failed to play music that appealed to his tastes, so Bruce turned it off altogether and vacantly stared at the road ahead of him. Driving was so monotonous now; it was times like these where he fervently missed taking out the tumbler. Ever since he'd begun driving the technologically-advanced vehicle, his luxurious sports cars seemed to pale in comparison. It just wasn't the same.

He was quickly approaching the point where the open country transitioned into heavy traffic; where the endless road became an sea of stop lights and crosswalks. Soon enough, the trees were replaced by steel skyscrapers, which ascended high into the sky like godlike beings, their watchful eyes following every ant-like person that scurried across the grimy, Gotham sidewalks. The clean air became hazy and thick with pollution, and the waning daylight suddenly became almost grim in hue.

Navigating the cluttered streets of Gotham was second nature to him; he was able to weave through traffic with the expertise of a practiced taxi driver. A person had to be an experienced driver in order to swerve through this kind of highway congestion. One mistake could be fatal. There were always a couple of nuts behind the wheel, making stupid decisions. Luckily, he'd been able to avoid such people for the most part. He did, however, get stuck behind some tediously slow driver who left their blinker on for quite some time. That aside, the drive had proved itself to be uneventful, if not a bit relaxing.

Twenty minutes into the drive, Bruce found himself nearing the wealthier district of Gotham, where most of its business executives, entrepreneurs and self-made millionaires resided. The tip of the sun was just dipping beneath the horizon and the billionaire glanced down at the card resting weightlessly in his lap, examining the address. He was almost there. A couple more turns every so often led him to a substantially enormous mansion- a Victorian building with enormous arches, held up by pearly white pillars and a gated entrance, which was opened to guests. A tall, stone wall lined the property, dotted with electronic surveillance cams. Bruce slowly drove in, looking nonplussed at the grandeur.

Emerging from his car, Bruce stepped out onto the pavement, straitened his tux and stared up at the entrance. A chauffeur greeted him, donned in a burgundy suit spangled with gold, intricately-designed buttons. The man looked like a bellhop from way back in the day, prepared to hoist his baggage to his penthouse suite.

"Welcome, Mr. Wayne." The man greeted politely.

The Wayne tossed his keys to the employee, who caught them in a startled sort of way. Hand digging into his pocket, Bruce pulled out a small wad of money, pried out a fifty and handed it to the man nonchalantly.

"Th-thank you, Mr. Wayne." The chauffeur murmured with barely contained excitement.

"Careful with that car," Bruce told him, "a friend of mine expects to have it back in one piece."

"No problem." The man looked mildly surprised at this, but none-the-less, he took the words to heart and made his way to the Lamborghini parked before the enormous mansion. Bruce began walking up the stairs that lead to entrance of the house- he spotted several people lingering just outside of the door. Lithe women clung to their dates arms, sipping from their champagne glasses. Some of the men appraised him as he approached, giving him nods and smiles. The women's gazes lingered longer than necessary.

"Good evening, Mr. Wayne." A middle-aged, blonde-haired woman greeted him at the doorway, clad in a gold dress that was cut off at the kneecaps. She had marvelous calves.

Couldn't say the same about her face, though.

"Cassandra," Bruce smiled at her cordially. Cassandra was a fellow business woman, whom he regarded with a certain amount of respect. She was vice president of the Darcy Corporation, which had ties to his own company. He could only wonder where her business partner had wandered off to-

"Good to see you could make it," she spoke, arm linking with his as she began to strut forward, pulling him further into the house. Crystal chandeliers lit the ceiling, casting a romantic sort of glow about the massive hallways. "As you know, this is a is a fund raising party, so donations are needed." She notified as they entered what he assumed was the ballroom. It was surprisingly crowded with lavishly-dressed men and women who all chatted amicably with one another. It was the kind of party that Bruce hated the most- the posh, esprit de corps get-together, where everyone stood around aimlessly and made dull conversation about their assets and wealth.

Why was it that people felt riveted to spew about their recent splurges and money-making ventures, anyhow? It made no sense to him.

"Those desks over there are where you can fill out funding information. All donations will be given to the Gotham City Police Department, to help fund public safety facilities. We hope that your contributions will help in making Gotham a safer place to live in." Cassandra recited this almost poetically- she must've practiced frequently to get the sales pitch to sound just right.

Despite this, Bruce was swayed. If this money would go to help secure the fate of Gotham's citizens and its police, he'd be sure to donate a sizeable amount.

"Over here," Cassandra pulled him to the other side of the room, past several cliques of illustrious millionaires who were quietly lounging, "is where we will be hosting activities pretty soon." She smiled at him knowingly as they came up to a small podium, where a small band played. Her arm slipped from his.

"Hm. _Activities_," Bruce repeated amusedly. Somehow, he doubted he'd be doing anything so degrading. Not unless he had alcohol in his system, anyhow- which seemed like a pretty doable thing, at the moment. He'd be sure not to go overboard, like he had last time. "Cassandra-" Bruce turned to the blonde, about to ask her where he might find some champagne, but the woman was gone.

He looked slightly miffed as he pivoted on his heel, glancing around to see if the woman was anywhere nearby. Instead of finding gold-lined, feminine curves, Bruce made out the ash-colored silhouette of a waiter making his way into the hallway, tray in hand, with several wine glasses resting upon it. Bruce trailed directly behind the employee, pace steadily quickening.

When he finally caught up with the man, he snagged one of the glasses with a bland sort of look. Bruce was now standing amidst a nearly empty hall- everyone had vacated the premises and moved into the ballroom, apparently. The waiter noticed this as well, eyebrows shooting upwards as he made his way back into the ballroom. There was one woman sitting at a bench, looking over at Bruce inquisitively. He walked up to the brown-haired woman, subtly looking her over. She had wavy, brown hair that was tied into a messy bun with narrow eyeglasses resting upon her nose. Her dress was long, flowing and green- not cropped to the point of being obscenely short. It was a look he preferred over the others.

"Quite the lively party, huh?" He intoned sarcastically, taking a sip from his glass. Oh, this was some _good _stuff… expensive, too.

"Definitely," she replied dryly as she stood up from the bench, pulling uncomfortably at the folds of emerald fabric pooling at her hips. "You're Bruce Wayne, right?"

"That's the name," he grinned. "And you would be?"

"Margaret. Margaret Lyndelle." She smiled at him in greeting. "I guess they'll be having activities going on in a minute or two."

"What's all that about, anyway?" Bruce questioned. He had heard Cassandra mutter something along the lines of that, but the woman had never really elaborated-

"Oh, I heard that there's gonna be an auction or something like that. And then dancing."

"Ah." Well, auctions were always fun…

_Right_.

"I think I'll skip out on the… _entertainment_," Margaret made a sour face as she placed her hands on her hips.

Bruce nodded in agreement.

"I'm with you there."

* * *

There were two rooms built in the furthermost corner of the Darcy's mansion home- twin giant, walk-in freezers that were completely emptied of their contents, conjoined by one door. The electronic temperature control was disabled, leaving the two enormous cubicles at room temperature. One light was permitted in each room- a single bulb that hung from the ceiling in the most simplistic way. To turn the mechanism on and off, one had to pull the little metal chain that dangled beside the light.

He had everyone crammed into one of the freezers, that way they could have a little bit of a pep talk before the party _really _started.

"Show begins in two minutes, boys. Aren't you all just terribly _excited_?" The Joker gushed. Joy exuded from every pale curvature carved into his scar-tattered face. He pinned his amused expression on the hostages who were firmly tied to their chairs at the front of the 'classroom' and jocundly hopped before them. "The vice presidents _sure _got this party under control. I'm glad tuh see that all of ya followed my directions so well!" The harlequin cackled jubilantly. Flicking his wrist, he peered down at his watch with a gauging look.

"Hm. One minute." His red-painted lips pulled together as he trembled. The clown-guised henchmen straitened a bit. Oh, he was so excited, so _excited_… "So, you know the drill. If this party goes according to plannn... you get to go free."

"Oh! Thirty… seconds…"

His hostages began squirming frantically, faces dire and eyes widening.

"_Ten _seconds."

He was giggling uncontrollably as his men began to put on their game faces- cracking their knuckles and stretching their muscles. Others grabbed their hand guns, loading them with little clicking sounds.

"Three… two… _one_…" he counted quietly, fingers pulling together. This was perfect- the suspense was already _killing _him.

"_Go_!"

The freezer doors groaned open, releasing a smog-like steam; his henchmen flooded out, guns in hand as their boots slapped against the floors.

The Joker turned to the hostages, grinning wickedly.

"And they're off!" He cried exuberantly, waving his arms about in a wild fashion. The hostages shook violently; it was a family- there were two children: one was a preteen and the other was around the age of six. Tears pooled down their cheeks, but the Crown Prince of Crime ignored them, opting to examine the older of the three. The wife was a young thing, with doe-eyes, a nice ass and pouty lips. She was undoubtedly in it for the money; Mr. Darcy was quite the old thing, after all. Who'd willingly fuck something so archaic without getting some sort of financial benefits?

Well, not that it really _mattered_... not that he was particularly _interested_. It all just went to show how truly pathetic people could be.

The other hostages were locked away in other rooms of the house, where he had his henchman deployed and ready to shoot any moving object other than himself. Two of his men were in the other freezer, toiling away the time. Which was fine with him, because he doubted that the hostages would be able to get very far- they were bound tightly and the doors had electronic locks.

Eyes closing, the Joker listened intently. Any minute now…

As if on cue, guns fired in an ear-splitting din, combined with the sound of terrified shrieking. Now _that's _what he had been waiting for. Much better than the quiet. He loved to listen to the sound of chaos- of undiluted horror; it made him quiver with unprecedented elation.

_'Oh happy day!'_ He clapped his hands together before he reached for the walkie-talkie within his plum-colored coat and pulled it close to his mouth.

"We ready?" He asked into it, the sanguine paint of his lips rubbing against the plastic.

"_Yup." _A static voice replied.

Removing his finger from the 'speaker' button, the Joker shoved the communication device back into his pocket and briefly glanced at the hostages.

"Goodbye kiddies! Behave yourselves while Mommy's away!" With a wink, the purple-clad convict slipped from the freezer room, shutting and locking the door behind him. For good measure, he re-activated the cooling device, before sauntering down the hall at top speed. His dress shoes clicked like fast-paced drums as he rounded the corner, trench fluttering dramatically behind him. With one hand, he reached for his shotgun and pried it from beneath the lapels of his shirt.

Fun, fun, fun. Tonight was going to be so much _fun_. He'd have his party and he was almost positive he'd finally have Batman- he didn't know what he would do with either of them, per se, but the thought was simply enthralling.

From the hallway, the harlequin burst into the ballroom, which was now dead silent. His henchmen worked their way around the enormous area, placing explosives in each of the guests' palms. They were highly volatile mini-bombs- any sudden moves and BOOM, everyone was a goner.

One of his more special toys. Special toys for a very special occasion.

Everyone gasped collectively as the Joker made his grand appearance, with his back hunched in an almost animalistic position, hiding his face from view. He cocked his gun, a searing grin twisting upon his disfigured lips. Tonight, he felt like an unforgiving monster; tonight, Gotham would finally see how terrible he could really be.

With the deaths of all of these high-class business owners and entrepreneurs, Gotham City would crumble. Who would run all of the corporations? Who would handle investments? Where would all of the _money _go?

People really did love money- oh how they _loved _it. Some, even more than life itself.

"How many people would it take to _die _tonight," began the painted man so that everyone in the vicinity could hear his course, contralto voice, "for the people of Gotham to finally get my point?"

To his left, the Joker made out a particularly _fine _specimen of a female. She was oriental; a beautiful woman with onyx locks pulled into a impeccably neat little braid. She had almond-shaped eyes and a flawless, tanned complexion. He spun his shotgun dazzlingly, almost intimately, in his palm as he marched towards her, head cocked slightly to the right as his probing gaze made contact with her frightful one. When he was standing right before her, he lazily lifted his gun and pressed it against her temple, smiling in delight.

She looked as though her heart had stopped functioning.

"What do _you _think, girly?" Inquired the clown, eyebrow ticking impatiently. Her mouth cracked open a breadth of an inch, but no words came out. "How many? Just spit it out."

* * *

Bruce quickly grasped Margaret's wrist, roughly pulling her into a darkened corner of the hall, behind an enormous, life-sized vase with Indian designs painted upon its glossy surface. Several men sprinted through the halls, clown masks pulled over their heads. Bruce's hand slapped against her mouth as she attempted to voice her protest, almost knocking her glasses off, while they both pressed flush against the wall. As soon as the gunshots had been fired, the Wayne had a startlingly sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. Instinct told him to hide, hide anywhere. Behind an enormous piece of pottery seemed like a good idea at the time. When the men vanished around the corner, Bruce released a breath he didn't know he'd been holding.

It was only happenstance that they were still lingering in the hall- a very fortunate coincidence in the Billionaire's mind- paranoid, he stiffly gazed around, not taking his hand from the woman's face. He could feel the roughness of her breathing against his palm- he didn't blame her; his was just the same. Every breath he took was impossibly loud to his own ears- he felt as though the people in the ballroom might be capable of hearing it. He couldn't be sure if any more of the men would come down this hall or not; he hoped and prayed that they wouldn't.

He turned to the brunette, face as serious as a heart attack.

"I'm going to let you go, but you're going to have to stay quiet. They might come over here." He whispered to her; her frightened eyes looked into his and she nodded silently in affirmation. Slowly, he compliantly pulled his hand away from her mouth.

Margaret moved her trembling arm to the handbag slung over her shoulder.

"Do you… know how to handle a gun, Mr. Wayne?" She queried with an almost inaudible voice. When her hand emerged, Bruce could make out the butt of a small handgun and some cartridges.

"I think I have a pretty good idea," he answered automatically. Of _course _he knew how to use a handgun- at one point in time, he had been Batman; so it was only logical to assume that he learned to use such a simplistic, deadly weapon.

"I'm a detective for the GCPD," she told him, pulling out an identification card. "Last week, our office received a threatening letter from the Joker, saying that there would be an attack this Friday. Today."

'_Oh Jesus,' _Bruce thought to himself. This was not good. He had an acute idea of what was going on when he saw the oh-so-familiar masks the men had been wearing, but to have his fears confirmed out loud...

"There was no description of where or what time. No particular events were taking place today, other than parties and small things like that. So the boss split us all up; I was almost positive that nothing would happen here. But… I wasn't expecting…"

"Your boss… as in, Commissioner Gordon?" Bruce's lips became tight.

"That would be him…"

"You- you sound like it's your first time dealing with this guy. The Joker." Otherwise he would've more than likely seen her before. She must've been new.

"It is. But... I... I have to call for backup. Just.. uh, use this if you need it. But don't do anything stupid." Detective Lyndelle handed him the weapon.

The newly-found weight in his hand was deeply unsettling.

Was there any possible way for Bruce to get at the Joker, without giving himself away? Surely the entrance to the ballroom was guarded by his henchmen; how could he find a way to sneak in? He had to do _something_. Sitting by idly had never been his forte; he was one of the only people who had faced against the psychotic criminal head-to-head and lived to tell about it. Even if he didn't have his cape or cowl to mask his identity, he could still save these people.

Well, he _could _save them, but the question was, _should _he save them? Doing such a thing was no longer his responsibility- he had agreed with Jim Gordon on this matter. He was firmly resolved- had been for the past seven months. It was a hard thing to get past. If he did do this, he would be breaking his promise with the commissioner- his silent vow with all of Gotham. Yet, at the same time, however, he technically wouldn't be going back on his word… Because he wasn't Batman. At this moment in time, he was Bruce Wayne.

If he didn't act, refused to save them… inadvertently, it was the same as killing them himself. And- honestly, _selfishly_, Bruce couldn't bear the weight of anyone else's death upon his shoulders. It was morally wrong.

Gordon told him that he would do everything in his power to make Gotham safe. Promised. But things had only gotten worse. Could it be that Gordon had been wrong this entire time? Was Batman the one thing that Gotham truly needed, in order to stand back on its feet?

Maybe this was the choice he was supposed to make? The one that Rachel had been referring to when he had that dream...?

The moment he slipped one of the cartridges in to the gun was the moment he made his decision.

He had to do this.

Shooting a determined look towards Detective Lyndelle, who was agitatedly pulling out her cell phone, Bruce began making his way down the hall, back pressed fully against the wall with the gun held poised in his hands. It was only ten feet until the corner. After he reached the very edge, he cautiously peered around the wall. There was one henchclown in this part of the hallway, pacing back and forth. From Bruce's vantage point, the clown appeared to have no gun- but he wasn't about to make any assumptions.

Obviously, the business tycoon couldn't run towards the clown, considering how far away he was. And he most certainly wasn't about to go off and shoot his gun; that would make his and Margaret's position known to everyone in the mansion. Did he have anything that he could use to draw the man closer? A lure of some kind?

Bruce searched his pockets, patting at his blazer and slacks and digging around a bit. Pocket lint, more pocket lint, cell phone, wallet…

Wait.

Expertly, he flipped open the phone, rapidly punching in a few numbers and paused.

The tune from 'Happy Days' echoed loudly through the hallway; Bruce glanced up at Detective Lyndelle with a smirk. She looked positively mortified, mouth gaping open as he quickly snapped the phone shut and shoved it back into his pocket. The billionaire paused as heavy foot steps approached.

"What the fuck was that?" Muttered the clown, heading down the hallway and drawing his weapon from his threadbare overalls. Indeed, it was a gun- a silencer, no less. Just as the man came into the playboy's line of sight, Bruce jumped him- the clown attempted to throw him off, but not before Bruce's elbow slammed into the henchman's back, disarming him. The man crumpled to his knees with a startled cry as he dropped his weapon to the floor. Bruce took his own gun and used it to crack the man upside the head with just enough force to knock him unconscious, letting him fall to the ground with a dull 'thud.'

Margaret ran over to the Wayne with an furious fire in her eyes.

"What the hell do you think you're _doing_?!" She seethed in a whisper, holding her phone away from her mouth. "I thought I told you not to do anything stupid!"

"If we don't act fast, those people will die." Bruce rebuked quietly as he bent down beside the Joker's fallen henchman. He pulled the mask from the man's face, picked up the silencer from the floor and handed it to the detective. After that, he flipped the man over, beginning to search the man for other weapons. The only other items found on the man's body were a packet of razor blades, a blood-spattered tissue and a butterfly knife.

"That's not your job, Mr. Wayne. That's the police's job."

"Well, they aren't here yet, _are they_?" The Wayne pulled on the rubber mask over his own face. The inside was moist from the other man's breath; the sensation was enough to make Bruce nauseous, but he ignored it.

"You don't understand, I _can't _let you risk your life like tha-"

But the billionaire was already making his way down the hall, ignoring her.

* * *

"Oh." The Joker murmured in a disappointed voice, a dispirited look appearing on his features. His lips tugged downwards and his eyebrows creased- it looked as though he were smiling and frowning at the same time, with the red paint smudged onto his lips almost contradictorily. Wide, brown eyes peered up at him, glistening with fearful tears. "Ya don't _know_, do ya? That's really too _bad_, 'cause, ya see, I was 'bout tuh let ya go!"

The harlequin shrugged his shoulders as if silently saying, 'Oh well!' and pulled back his gun, letting the arm holding it to fall at his side in an almost paralyzed fashion. The frown bled from his face and then he was smiling at the woman again, who had suddenly regained her motor functions. She stumbled backwards against the people who stood behind her- their hands immediately fell upon her shoulders, steadying her.

"Aw, scaredy cat." Gibed the criminal, taking careful steps back into the center of the ballroom. Really, this was kind of depressing- not much of a enthusiastic crowd he had tonight. "You all look _bushed_. Well, we cant have that... Guess I'm just gonna have'ta liven up the party, aren't I?"

The Crown Prince of Crime spun around and quickly walked to the entrance of the ballroom, peering down the hallway. Now, he knew he had a pawn out here _somewhere_… He looked the other direction.

There!

Clapping his hands, the Joker caught the attention of his henchman. The man jumped, startled, and jogged over; the olive-haired man peered at the man's garbs confusedly. A suit... a well-pressed suit, at that.

'_Hm_.'

"You boys get those doors locked?" The Joker petitioned with a thoughtful look. His crimson lips puckered and his darkened eyes narrowed.

"Yeah, Boss." The other replied in a gruff voice.

For a moment, the painted man only stared at the henchman. Then, before the other could react, he reached forth and snatched the man by his collar, snapping him forward. He was laughing manically, chest heaving with each string of giggles. The Joker wrenched the man's head down, his lips pressed close to the henchclown's mask, whispering in a teasing voice.

"I never asked anyone to lock the doors."

The other stilled at this, and the Joker resumed his laughing with fervor. He was wheezing for air- the gasps and fibrillations filled the room as he began to drag the man forward. He had the dirty little liar by the scruff of the neck. Honestly, did the man think he was stupid?

The Joker hadn't intended on this little change in plan, but he was grateful; this would be much more entertaining for his little crowd.

"Lookie, lookie." Hummed the Joker, holding the man beside him with flexing forearms. The man wasn't putting up much of a struggle, but he most certainly wasn't willingly walking beside him. "Ya see what I found? A... ah, imposter!"

The atmosphere couldn't have been any more still. Eyes widened and people instinctively stepped backwards; the reaction was instantaneous and humorous. All of this was just too good. And to think, he hadn't even _anticipated _it.

"So, who have we here?" The criminal jeered as he jerked the man forcefully forward and fixed him with a studious expression. The captive didn't move at all; didn't say a word. Just stood there, muscles lax and head bowed. How incredibly _boring_. "Not gonna talk?" The harlequin pursed his lips, looking aggravated.

With his free, gloved hand plunging into his jacket, the Joker pulled out his special knife, holding it threateningly in hand. He'd slice this man to ribbons before he was mad a fool of in front of his guests. Gingerly, the psychopath placed the blade against the man's skin, grinning at the other's sudden intake of breath.

It only took a second- the harlequin had the upper hand and was a mere nanosecond from spilling blood, when a painstakingly familiar, ferocious growl met his ears. He blinked once, blinked twice, and then an uncomfortable tightness had enveloped the Joker's wrist, where a hand had nimbly wrapped itself there, squeezing with Herculean strength. A startled sound escaped the purple-clad clown as he found his knife-holding hand twisted behind his back, soon followed by his other. The weapon clattered to the floor.

His henchman immediately abandoned their positions, sprinting forward with their guns aimed and ready to fire.

The Joker laughed, trying to get a look at his captor, head turning every which direction as he struggled to free himself. He was no easy catch, but whoever this person was, they were exceedingly strong-

A gun went off and missed the disguised man, but only by an inch or so.

"_Stop_." The Joker firmly ordered his lackeys, looking positively overjoyed. Their heads tilted confusedly, but they lowered their weapons.

"Let them go, Joker." Bruce seethed, labored breath fanning against the rubber mask pulled over his face. His heart was beating rapidly; he felt that he might go into cardiac arrest should it continue.

This position was so familiar to him. His arch enemy's malleable form beneath his controlling hands. It was nice to feel this power again.Batman was used to such a potent feeling of dominance, but Bruce Wayne _wasn't_. It was intoxicating. Enthralling. He had almost forgotten how it felt. But... to feel it without a mask…

'_Let her go.'_

_'Hm. Very poor choice of words!'_

That voice, the concealed fury and tenebrosity that drove each word, was what made the harlequin blink unexpectedly.

Could it be…?

"Ya know what? You seem-uh… _awfully _familiar to me," the painted man mused in a whisper, so that the only other person to hear his voice was the masked man who had his arms pinned back. His kohl-lined eyes peered up at the ceiling in thought. Tongue habitually darting past his ruby red lips, the Joker tilted his head back a little, leaning into the crook of the other's shoulder. "So strong, so… _demanding_. If I didn't _know _any better, I'd say you were-"

"You don't know anything. You're a mindless sociopath." Bruce raged, adjusting himself so that the clown wasn't so disgustingly _close_.

"If I didn't _know _any better," continued the clown, undeterred, "I'd say... you were _Batman_."

* * *

**Author's note: **

_And the plot thickens... somewhat._

Oh. My. God.

SO FRIGGIN' LONG. (Rips out hair)

Sorry for the neglect. Initially, I had planned to post this on Saturday, but my aunt was dying. She ended up dying yesterday, though. Pretty sad business. It's been a long two weeks, I'll tell you.

Sorry for the cliffy again, too. This chapter was getting to be too long, so I had to chop it off at some point. I couldn't decide where, because all of the points where I could have cut it off were cliffy points. So we're gonna go with here and call it good.

Now. Hm. I hope this chapter clarifies a lot of the questions I've been given. If you'd like to go and bitch about 'plot flaws' and the like, please. Spare yourselves the time and just go. As you can see, another OC has been added. Not because I wanted to, but because I needed to. I like to think of OCs as a device used in order to accomplish what I want throughout the story. If you don't like it, too bad. I'm not taking complaints. I'm in an extremely foul mood at the moment, so if you want to flame at me, I'll flame you right back. With all of the fire power I have.

Anywho… Hope you all liked the extra-long chapter (holy balls, over nine thousand words!!), and thank you all for taking the time to voice your opinions. It is highly appreciated.

**Please review****- **it's what motivates me.

See you all next chapter!


	6. Chapter 6

* * *

_In which a mistake is made, the Joker discovers Batman's true identity, and things take a general turn for the worst. Joker/Batman pairing. Post-TDK universe. Ongoing._

Without a Cowl

Chapter VI

* * *

"If I didn't _know _any better," continued the clown, undeterred, "I'd say... you were _Batman_."

The Wayne's heart seemingly skipped a beat at the statement- a wave of dismay roared throughout his entire body. His words were spoken with inadvertent conviction; the kind of certainty that lingered just beneath the surface- the clown was obviously feigning his unassertiveness. Bruce could see through the transparent masquerade as though he were staring through a pane of glass. The Joker was a cunning creature; a sanctimonious, debauched being of sheer wit- Bruce knew this. And somehow, someway, the criminal knew his true identity- the self-satisfied smirk said it all.

Of all the things Bruce had anticipated, this was most certainly not one of them. He was well aware of the fact that the Joker was extraordinarily observant; thus, he assumed that the olive-haired psychopath would immediately be suspicious that he was an imposter- he _hoped_ and prayed that he was right. How else would he be able to get close to his insidious enemy?

'_What am I supposed to say?'_ He had never been in this sort of situation- he'd never allowed himself to be so vulnerable before. And now he fervently cursed himself, because he knew _why _he never allowed himself to get in so deep.

He made a huge mistake; Bruce had underestimated the Joker.

Strengthening his already painful grip, Bruce liberally applied his weight onto the other's shoulders all at once, pushing the criminal to the floor with a growl resonating in the back of his throat. How was it that the disfigured male knew, without even seeing his face, that he was Batman? He had given him no leverage, no information to hypothesize such a thing. At this, Bruce found himself vexed. Bruce Wayne and Batman were two entirely different beings who harbored the same body- they were alike in no way. They were complete and polar opposites. What possible connection did they share? And if there was an affiliation of some sort, how was it that the Joker was able to decipher such a thing?

Could it be that the Joker, of all people, knew him better than he knew himself?

"No," the Billionaire murmured aloud, lips contorting into a displeased frown as he sunk his fingers further into the flesh of the Joker's wrists. The other man giggled hysterically as the slippery surface of his cheek was pressed firmly against the floor, eyes tightly clenching shut in his mirth. With each strain of cackles, their audience became more and more keyed up; the henchclowns shifted unsteadily back to their posts, glimpses shifting between their hostages and their boss almost edgily.

The Wayne took the Joker's palms and abrasively pressed them to the floor. Damn that scar-faced man and _damn_ his gleeful laughing.

Bruce could have ended it right there, couldn't he have? All he had to do was take out his gun, press it against the other's skull and pull the trigger. It would be over. It was so simple, so very easy; much less complicated than it was made out to be. The rational part of his mind shrieked to get it all over with, to just_** end it**_… while his primal instincts, Batman's moral code, screamed in opposition. It was wrong to take the law into his own hands; he was not the dealer of death.

His thoughts were an indiscernible blur- a rush of torrentially intense proposals and schemes that fluctuated like a dangerous storm in his mind. He had the Joker _right there_: at his knees, on the floor, giggling in that sinister way of his…

Suddenly, the brunette was acutely aware of how very intimate he had made their position. Just moments before, he had pulled himself back from the other's encroaching form, away from that way that grungy, matted scalp that had been leaning into his collar- and here _he_ was, pushing the man to his floor using only his upper body muscles, chest pressed flush against the other's back and hands pinning the Joker's wrists to the floor. Shockingly, this particular position reminded him of the dream (nightmare?) he'd had several days ago. Reversed.

Bruce dispelled that thought from his mind immediately.

Maybe this was why the Joker was so incredibly amused?

"Oh, _Bat_mannn…" Sighed the clown in a whimsical tone, muscles softening beneath Bruce's weight; the billionaire found himself growing extremely uncomfortable at the overpowering heat that swept through him. Psychopaths weren't meant to take on such breathy voices. "Mh... I missed you _too_."

Somewhere in the pits of his stomach, that statement struck a cord.

"You're sick." Bruce seethed venomously at the Joker, whose head was turned so those piercing, kohl-infused tunnels were staring strait back at him. A rictus grin was pasted upon his craved lips, beaming triumphantly up at him Next thing he knew, one of the Joker's hands hand pried itself free from the suit-clad man's tenacious grip, and something cold had pierced his chest. It burrowed deep into his flesh, exiting as expeditiously as it had come, leaving the Wayne was gasping desperately for air.

'_What_?'

Wiggling from beneath his flaccid form, the Clown Prince of Crime's legs kicked from under the guised playboy as he wormed himself free. Bruce rolled over, eyes screwing shut.

A familiar burning sensation resonated within his ribs; white thunderbolts of pain spliced through his nerves, so intense that it made his vision blurry. Bruce's hand snaked up to his chest, gently patting at the source of his agony. He hissed in response. When he drew back his hand, staring at his fingertips, a sinking feeling bloomed within him. There was blood. Lots of it.

How had the harlequin managed to stab him? And so fluidly?

The Joker leaned back on his haunches, peering at the masked man exultantly, thoroughly examining his fallen form, rapt and engrossed as he watched the other's chest heave and rise.

"…We're… all_…_ _sick_. You too, in yer own-hmm- '_special'_ way." Annunciated the painted man as he hunched downwards, looking as though he was going to whisper something softly against the other's mask. He was going to tell him that the blade was slicked in venom; a paralyzing concoction he mixed himself, but he kept it to himself.

Soon, Batsy wouldn't be able to hold up his own body weight. The toxin wasn't deadly per se- in small, diluted dosages, anyhow. In concentrated doses, the chemical proved itself to be highly lethal. It ate away at the nervous system and destroyed its functions- it was horrific, really.

The Joker was delighted. Thus far, the built man hadn't shown any hint of rebuttal against his accusations. This man, this muscular body and whoever's face was hidden beneath that mask, _was_ his Batman. His. And no one else's. He was positive. The Batman never seemed to stop amazing him; no one was able to perplex him like the Kevlar-clad vigilante. Perhaps the fact that the man allowed himself to get caught so easily was what gave the Joker the tip off. No one in their right mind would dare to crash _his_ party; the idea was ludicrous. Only someone like Batman would petition to do something so hazardous, and then let himself get caught in the midst of it all. That, and the Joker had expected the caped crusader to somehow be informed of his devious plot; it was one of the more predictable traits the harlequin had siphoned from his observations of the bat. He obviously had some good sources, the Joker would give him that.

From his place upon the floor, Bruce snarled. He wouldn't be so easily conquered- it would take a hell of a lot more than a simple flesh wound to incapacitate him. He'd handled worse. If he could get the Joker down for the count, or at least distract the clown until the police were be able to take over, then they all would be much better off.

Speaking of the police, why weren't they there yet?

With the scuff of shoes squeaking against the floor, the wounded man pushed himself to his feet, lunging at the painted man with an amount of poise that had the Joker reeling. When the man tackled the purple-clad criminal, the Joker crowed joyfully, re-brandishing his knife as brute, muscled force slammed into him at a staggering speed. He missed doing this- missed this dance. The vital piece that felt as though it had been ripped away from him was suddenly back in its rightful place. He'd missed the fiery glee that sparked through his system with each clash of fists-

Speaking of which, the bat had just landed a _really good_ sucker punch to his face.

"Good form!" The harlequin spat sarcastically, rubbing at his pulsating cheek, smearing the blood trickling from his lip into the white grease paint on his face. He supposed he'd earned that one though, considering he'd just stabbed the other only moments prior.

Satisfaction welled within Bruce. Delivering that punch had been nothing short of invigorating. The Joker stumbled back several steps, wiping bewilderedly at his face, as if he wasn't entirely sure what had just come to pass. It was hard to see the scenario play out through two small peepholes in the rubber mask, but Bruce managed. Somehow the billionaire was handling his own quite well, despite his slightly impaired vision.

Anticipation coursed through Bruce's veins; this was the part where their fight became more intense. But it wasn't the mere though of beating the twittering harlequin to a pulp that was so very enthralling; Bruce was driven by some ulterior motive. Vengeance? Fury? What it was, he couldn't tell. But there was something urging him to move forward, an invisible force compelling him to whole-heartedly disregard the flaming pain swirling within his chest, beckoning him to keep standing. Why did he feel as though he needed to prove something- what was there to prove? That all of his previous efforts as Batman hadn't been all for naught? That Gotham still needed him? That maybe, somehow, the deaths from all of those months ago weren't entirely his fault?

Batsy's motions were gradually becoming more sluggish. The poison was taking its effect; all of the moving the Wayne had done only made the poison navigate his system faster.

"Enough of this _fighting_," the Joker cajoled coolly, swaggering forward several paces with his lopsided grin pulling further and further upwards, making the scar tissue at his lips appear much more distinctive. The light caught the prominent folds of skin such a way that it was almost engrossing to stare at; the way those hideous markings contorted with each slight twitch of his mouth had the Wayne morbidly captivated.

Bruce had almost forgotten the people in the ballroom; tearing his gaze from those disfigured lips, he turned to glance briefly at the terrified crowd. Non of them dared to make a move, not with the bombs placed in their hands and the guns aimed at their faces. But it was hard to keep looking at them when his eyesight was filled with nothing but plum purple cloth, senses overwhelmed with the smell of overly-laden cologne and the metallic scent of his own blood. He dodged a flurry of stabbing motions being thrown in his direction.

'_Why do I feel so tired?' _

He had to ignore the fatigue; the longer he let this continue, the higher the risk everyone else was at of not getting out of here alive. What was Detective Lyndelle doing out there? Surely the police were here by now-

His concentration was broken.

Bruce slipped up.

The Joker dove at the opportunity. Ardent fingers found the collar of the man's blazer while the other hand grazed the nape of his neck, moving up. Bruce could feel something solid pushing against his mask. His eyelids drooped somewhat.

_Click_.

"Never bring a, ah… knife to a _gunfight_, Batsy…" The Joker 'tut-tut'-ed, leisurely licking at his lips as he loaded his gun.

"Funny, considering I'm not the one who carries knives," Bruce countered icily, going precariously still. His tongue was lying at the bottom of his mouth- it was hard to lift it and speak.

"Hooohooo. You _comedian_, you," Growled the harlequin, eyes narrowing at his disguised counterpart. "I'm gonna unmask ya… for the whole audience to see. Do ya _want_ that?"

"Do _you_?" The billionaire slurred.

Oh, what a _good_ question.

"I've been patient enough, doncha_ think_?" Bruce winced as the sinewy fingers at his nape slid down his chest, rubbing at the gaping wound engraved there, smearing the blood around as though it were finger paint. The Wayne was suddenly feeling faint- his balance wavered and the Joker chuckled in a gravelly tone. "What would possibly make ya _think_ … that I could wait _longer_?" Drawled the trench coat-clad clown lazily, appearing baffled.

The copious, mind numbing sensation had Bruce thoroughly muted- he was beyond coherent sentences and squirming as the Joker's fingers explored his wound attentively. The nimble digits dug into the blood-dampened cloth of his dress shirt, caressing the sliced flesh of his torso in a consoling fashion. Cold metal pressed harder against his mask.

* * *

Margaret was shoved against the hallway wall, lips pulled into a 'o' shape as gloved hands squeezed her neck, constricting her airway. Her lungs burned as she clawed at the crushing grip, little whimpering sounds escaping her mouth. The clown before her was speaking to her, but she couldn't comprehend his words because her mind was flooded with an earsplitting ring that drowned out all other sound. The tips of her fingertips and her toes were beginning to tingle as they lost circulation.

"Dumb _bitch_," the henchman hissed malignly, masked face hovering closer to her own.

She'd managed to call the squad in, had gotten a hold of Gordon, but while she had been on the phone, something happened. Of course at least _one_ of the Joker's henchmen would be skulking around the halls, looking for rogue party attendees. She should've been scouting for such things, but- her heart was racing a mile a minute and Bruce Wayne had just been tugged into the ballroom by the Joker himself. Rational thought was out the window at that point. She was a detective; she _analyzed_ scenes- she didn't _participate_ in them.

When the clown snaked his hand around her, stealing her phone from her ear and chucking it against the wall (where it clattered to the floor in a broken heap,) the situation had taken an even more dramatic turn for the worst.

She couldn't die here- she _couldn't_. This was pathetic, there was no way she would let herself be strangled to death by some stalwart man wearing a clown mask. Conversely, her limbs were so incredibly weighted down that struggling proved to be futile. She simply couldn't extract herself from the steel-like grip.

Her hands slipped from the man's sausage-like fingertips, falling heavily at her sides. It was then that she felt something at her thigh brush against her forearm; she was suddenly reminded of the weapon she slipped into her gown while she was getting dressed for the party. A "just-in-case" knife, she called it. There was a little flap in the specially-tailored dress where the knife was securely stowed away, ready for emergency use.

The world was going fuzzy and dark; losing definition. Frenzied, the fingers of her right hand stealthily pulled at the emerald pocket of her dress, disappearing beneath the folds of fabric.

Sharp prickles of pain bloomed in her chest as the seconds ticked by. Each moment had her walking dangerously close to the edge of passing out. Knife now in hand, Margaret glanced up at the man with rekindled hope, took the blade and impaled it against the man's side without a second thought. The blade sunk in forcefully, piercing through the soft flesh; then, with as much force as she could muster, she pulled the blade out. The toothed edge of the knife tore at the smooth laceration, rending the flawless edges of skin and creating a gory mess.

Lyndelle grimaced as the henchman wailed in agony, dropping her unceremoniously to the floor. She coughed, gagging at the sensation of air flooding back into her lungs. God, it _hurt_. It felt as though someone had forced her to swallow an entire bottle of hot sauce- like she had been screaming at the top of her lungs for hours. Her throat was utterly raw and her lungs were searing with pain. The flesh of her neck ached with forthcoming bruises; her shoulders heaved as she attempted to catch her depleted breath.

Margaret found herself scooting backwards on the floor as the clown noticeably attempted to regain his bearings. Hand nursing his wounded side, the henchman marched towards her with deadly intent.

"Fucking whore!" The man swore vibrantly, diving at her. Lyndelle rolled onto her side, crawling away. The man landed just behind her, arms flailing forward. She attempted to stand back up, managed to hold herself upright for a scarce second -fucking _high heels_-

And then the man had a hold of her ankle, tugging it forcefully.

"Shit!" She yelped. Balance interrupted, she toppled gracelessly to the floor; her foot began to throb with brilliant sparks of pain. It was undoubtedly sprained. This, she knew, would make it all the more difficult to escape. Luckily, she still had her knife in hand. She could use that-

The man brutishly gripped her wrist, twisting it backwards until the pain was so encompassing that the knife fell from her fingertips, clattering to the floor. A silent cry was on her parted lips, left unvoiced.

Rouge red was spattered upon Lyndelle's dress and on the ground, soiling the spotless marble floors. The henchman was bleeding ubiquitously - his wound was leaking crimson like a sieve. His sullied gloves scratched at her dress in animalistic fervor, tearing the green fabric as he growled viciously.

Paralyzing fear struck the woman as the criminal grabbed her by the waist and flipped her onto her back. He was still wearing his mask; the tarnished texture of the clown's face looked like something out of a horror film. Its eyebrows were drawn downwards in fury, x-ed out eyes glaring depravedly down at her, but most of all, it was _smiling_.

With a deafening crash, the front doors burst open. Characters donned in black uniforms flooded into the hallway, semi-automatics and handguns aimed and ready to fire. The Henchman upon her froze in mid-tear, hand fisting her ruined garbs as his head turned to look behind him. The other hand, which held her wrist at an oblique angle, relaxed only slightly.

"Freeze!"

Lyndelle took this moment of distraction to steal back her hand. She fisted it and, with as much power as she could muster, punched the clown in the face. The sickening crack of her knuckles plowing into the other's jaw was more than gratifying- she didn't care of her hand ached afterwards.

The policemen ran forwards, the clinking of their equipment steadying her out-of-control heartbeat. They hoisted the henchman from her bloodied form while she remained on the ground, attempting to steady her breathing.

"Detective?" A familiar voice called out to her, concerned. Gordon came into her line of vision, leaning over her worriedly. His eyes widened at the blood blotting her gown.

"Not mine." She informed him in a hoarse voice, holding out her uninjured hand. He hoisted her up without preamble- she made to step forward but buckled slightly under her own weight. Fuck, she'd forgotten about her _ankle_… Gordon supported her, holding her upright.

"Where is he?" Gordon persisted, looking grave.

"The ballroom," The detective croaked. Shit, she could barely _speak_.

Gordon nodded at this, looking pleased.

"You did a good job, Margaret." Handing her off to another officer, the mustached man fixed her with a thankful gaze. "They'll get you bandaged up. We'll handle the rest."

"But-" Margaret looked defiant for a moment. Inside, she knew he was right- there was nothing more that she could do, especially when she was like this. At this moment in time, she was more of a liability than anything else. The detective heaved a sigh of reconciliation.

* * *

'_I' got 'im. I got 'im. __**I got 'im**__.' _

But… now that he had him, what would the Joker _do_ with him? He supposed he should follow through with his perilous warning, first of all: unmask the vigilante. He wasn't one to make idle threats, after all; he took pride in making powerful statements. Follow through was one of the more imperative rules he lived by.

The crowd hadn't heard his whispered accusations- neither had his little pawns. Taking off the other's guise was more for personal gain than anything else, should the Bat decide to go back into hiding and leave him high and dry any time in the future. 

The Joker preferred the cowl over the clown mask as well; he might as do Batman the honor of removing such a hideous hindrance.

The painted man grinned opaquely at the other's sudden loss of balance, leaning into him for support as his gloved fingers prodded curiously around the masked-man's wound. The man's skin was so incredibly warm, the Joker could feel the heat emanating through his gloves. The temperature was so opposite to his skin, which was as cold as death itself.

Joker giggled at the other's quiet intake of breath. If he didn't know any better, he'd say that the vigilante had been mildly enjoying his torturing ministrations. Who knew that the Batman was a masochist?

Removing his probing fingertips, the Joker wiped his bloody gloves upon the other's suit, looking pleased with his handiwork.

Now that Batsy was thoroughly debilitated…

"Let's see… who's behind that _mask_," Murmured the madman, prying his hand beneath the latex disguise and biting on his lower lip in anticipation. With a hasty, unpredictable motion of the fingers, the mask peeled from the other's face before the disguised man could really react.

Glazed, swarthy eyes narrowed at the giddy clown through rogue brunette bangs.

The Joker froze.

Gentle murmuring exploded throughout the disquieted room.

"Shut the fuck up!" Some of his henchmen rebuked, waving their handguns as a threatening reminder of their situation. The Joker could only stand and stare, face taking on a confounded expression.

Bruce glared defiantly at psychopath in return, mustering all of his strength to resist the urge to slump over in pain.

'_The __**Wayne**__ brat?'_

Something along the lines of fear roiled within the clown's stomach- he didn't enjoy the feeling at all. In fact, he despised it.

He had done his homework; he heard more than his fare share about the Wayne- from his drunken escapades and public skirmishes to burning down his own multimillion dollar manor- he spent his money frivolously and selfishly. The man was too shallow to be someone as selfless as Batman.

But… what if he was? Did that make the "billionaire playboy" persona just an enormous façade? Was it all just a front Batman put on so that he wouldn't be captured? It made sense, when he thought about it. Because, in all honestly, what sane person would go and accuse one of the world's wealthiest business tycoons of parading around at night, dressing in a bat suit, saving those in peril?

The man had the resources as well- an endless pool of money which could be used to invest in heavy-duty, high-class armors, unique weapons and tank-like vehicles that could drive through walls.

It made _perfect_ sense- so much that, as a matter of fact, it was laughable.

And how he did laugh- sneering at the other's glassy, weakened expression, snickering at the physical similarities Batman and Bruce shared- laughed until he simply couldn't take it any longer.

'_What. An. Enigma!'_ He thought to himself excitedly; this was all too sweet and so, so _ironic_. Who could've possibly guessed such a thing!

Droplets of blood coalesced to the floor. Even as the battle raged in the Wayne's mind - the fight to remain upright and aware of his surroundings - he knew he was down for the count. He'd lost too much blood, wasted too much time… His muscles were weak. He couldn't _move_.

Bruce's legs gave out from beneath him in exhaustion. The man's slack form suddenly pitched forward, mind lost to the suffocating darkness of unconsciousness. Oddly enough, the Joker automatically caught the torpid billionaire in his arms with a grunt- Batsy was a lot heavier than he looked. The staid brunette's head rested against his abdomen- the sight was oddly picturesque, in the clown's opinion. He giggled.

How odd- he literally had found his _hands full_ with the Batman.

A slamming sound could be heard echoing down the hallway, alerting the criminal of his newest guests. The Joker glanced behind him, huffing as he adjusted himself to the other's weight.

They were late, but he supposed that this was a lucky miscalculation on his part. Had they been any earlier, he might've been in trouble.

With a renewed, devilish grin, the Joker hoisted the Wayne up to the best of his ability, eventually succeeding in heaving the lax billionaire over his shoulder.

No, he hadn't had the time to achieve his initial plan- blowing up every philanthropist and successful businessperson that resided in Gotham in one fantastic explosion- but he did have this: Bruce Wayne, his dark knight, as implausible as it seemed at the time. It was a hard thing to wrap his mind around- he'd never been able to put a name with Batsy's face; had never been able to put an actual face with him, either. All there had ever been was a black mask… But he could work with this new material presented to him. The occasional spontaneous change in plan sometimes served to spruce up his life a little bit- he was an avid fan of versatility, after all. If things went according to plan every time, being the bad guy would become boring.

The Joker dug his hand into his jacket pocket, grumbling to himself all the while. Pulling out his walkie-talkie, he pressed the communication device close to his mouth and began to speak into it.

"Let the doggies out," he ordered with a dark voice, referring to his hostages pent up in the other rooms of the house. He was a man of his word- the business owners had served their purpose and had hosted this little party of his. "And… have one of the guys pull out the van."

"Boss?" The other replied, sounding unsure. The Joker 'hmm'-ed softly to himself, finding the proper way to restate his command.

"DO IT!" He snapped with spur-of-the-moment loudness, shoving the black device back into his pocket with a displeased growl. Glancing up, the Joker scanned his audience sinisterly, smacking his lips. From here, he could hear the steady slap of combat boots upon the floors. He'd better make this quick…

"Ladies," the Joker pursued with several light steps in reverse - or as light as he could manage with the heavy Wayne draped uselessly over his shoulder- "and _gentlemen_. I do hate to adjourn my party so very soon… But as you can _see_, I'm in a bit of a rut! I hope you've, ah… _enjoyed_ yourselves…"

Backing up, the harlequin stood beside entrance to the ballroom. He whistled loudly between his teeth- his henchclowns jumped at the high-pitched sound, collectively abandoning their posts and moving towards the door. They rummaged through their jackets, plying their weapons as they disappeared through open the doorway and hastily sprinted from the enormous room.

With a mock-solute, the Joker bid his attendees adieu and made his own exit, hopping from the ballroom with a menacing cackle that seemed to echo off of the very walls. He sprinted down the hallway, peering behind him as his henchmen proceeded to fire their weapons at the incoming police officers. The sound of heavy gunfire soon erupted in the atmosphere.

Now, the back exit… which direction was it again? Left?

He didn't stop to ponder as he rounded the corner, one arm coiled around the Wayne's waist, keeping the unconscious man from slipping off as he ran. Reaching the end of the hall, the Joker forced himself through the back door, violently kicking the steel 

threshold open. The door slammed against the outside wall, allowing the frigid November wind inside of the house; the Joker looked behind him distractedly. No policemen- no henchmen- no gunfire. That was fast. Maybe all of them were dead?

Without sparing a moment for remorse, he stepped through the steel exit. The Joker's darkened eyes fell upon the van parked directly adjacent to him- his ears were then assaulted by the sound of a voice blaring via intercom.

"We have you surrounded, put your weapons and hostage down and hands up!" An officer instructed from one of the many squad cars that were teeming the vicinity. The strobe lights placed upon their cars fluctuated vibrantly, blues and reds and whites illuminating the night.

He'd foreseen this, too.

"Put your hands up, or we will shoot you!"

Looking to the driver of his van, the Joker nodded, giving the edict as his smile spread further across his crimson lips. His hands slipped upwards innocently. Vaguely, he noted that his shoulder was becoming sore from bearing all of that extra weight for so long.

Several seconds later, maybe a second or so too soon, something exploded- something big. The sky blazed with the burning orange of firelight, searing heat eating at the trees as the flames snuck beneath the squad cars. The police screamed and began to fire their handguns, others simply ran- the Joker dove into the opened van, sliding Bruce from his shoulders and setting him on the floor. A series of crashes followed this as police vehicles began to implode, one by one.

"Oh say can you seeeee..." The Joker hummed the national anthem reverently as he jumped into the passenger seat, only pausing to laugh uncontrollably and slap his hands against the dash. They had walked right into it. Police these days had no tact whatsoever- no reasonable rationale to discern whether or not they were meandering directly into a trap. What a bunch of near-sided _dogs_…

"C'mon, let's _go_ already!" The Clown Prince of Crime goaded, shooting a look at the driver. With a squeal, the van veered forward and sped through the grass, tearing up the otherwise pristine lawn.

_'I should invest in something with… four-wheel-__**drive**__…'_ He though to himself as they bounced wildly back and fourth in their seats, driving over what felt like sinkholes. Buying such a nice toy wouldn't be hard- not with all of the money he was raking in. But he preferred to save the dough for assembling expensive bombs and oil drums. Sure, supplies were usually cheap, but he needed the manpower to hook everything up as well- that, and explosives tended to get spendy when bought in large quantities.

Adrenaline was still coursing through his veins, causing him to be extremely antsy. The Joker squirmed in his seat and absent-mindedly scratched at his cheek. He winced, harshly reminded of that lovely punch the Wayne delivered to him in the same exact spot only a mere half an hour beforehand. The area was still tender.

Wait.

The Wayne.

"Oh _ho_!"

The Joker immediately jumped from his seat, startling the driver has he pushed himself into the back of the van, where he'd dropped Bruce in his haste to watch his pyrotechnics. It was times like these when he realized that he was too easily distracted- he had Batman right there, in the palm of his hand, and he was so eager to watch flames burst into the sky that he nearly _forgot _about him…

"Hum… Mr. _Wayne_." He tested the name on his lips, eyes flickering about in indecision. He preferred Batman, in all honesty- but that was something that could be overcome with time. Or maybe he could be selfish just stick with both names?

Kneeling beside his captive, the Joker looked acutely put-out at the other's lack on consciousness. He hadn't expected them man to be out for so _long_- the toxin was only supposed to last for fifteen minutes or so. Nor had he expected to see the man's face so exceedingly pallid and ill-looking. A feverish sweat lined Bruce's brow, beading at his temples as he breathed laboriously, 

struggling to take in air. The painted man's disappointment ebbed quickly enough; he shrugged it off and giggled happily as he leaned closer, bringing his hands to that delicate face. Oh, his fingertips were just _itching_ to touch-

A shuddering gasp escaped Bruce; the Joker pulled back slightly as his eyes fell upon those thin, chapped-looking lips.

He'd always tried to imagine what Batsy would look like without a cowl, tried to depict the face on his own, but he never once conceived that such a perfect specimen of a male could have been hiding beneath the many layers of latex, aramid fiber and Kevlar.

"Batsy, Batsy, _Batsy_," Crooned the white-faced clown as he inclined dangerously close to the other. Short, hot puffs of air caressed the Joker's skin as he hovered above the playboy by a mere centimeter, looking over the carefully chiseled complexion, taking in the sharpness of the jaw line, the strong chin and high-placed cheekbones. He was overwhelmed with the desire to trace each and every contour on that flawless face; taste each crevice; commit each and every minute detail to his memory. But he'd much rather do it while the other was awake- readily writhing in ecstasy. How he would love to see the man behind the mask so incredibly vulnerable; begging and pleading for more-

"I have you _now_…" The Joker whispered with a deep, sultry laugh as his lips barely grazed Bruce's.

* * *

"What do you mean '_he got away!'_?" Gordon had never been so irate in all of his life: from the trembling in his hands to the overwhelming heat of anger that swept through his entire system- there wasn't a single cell in his body that felt anything less. "We had guys in the back! How in God's name did he manage to escape!?" He exclaimed, running a hand through his hair furiously.

When the Joker's henchmen flooded from the ballroom, a gunfight of sorts broke out. The squad lost four of their men amidst the fray- but they managed to take out each and every one of the henchclowns. And then the explosion out back- the Joker had obviously rigged another set of bombs on the premises as a precaution.

Firefighters doused the inferno raging behind the mansion, releasing deluges of water to suffocate the fire. But, alas- all was not as it seemed. He had his men run in to evacuate the people within the building- but a vast majority of them were tied with highly volatile bombs. One of the Joker's favorite playthings, he knew.

"There was nothing we could've done, Commissioner," the other officer murmured off-handedly, furrowed brows staring at the mansion that was veiled behind a thick curtain of smoke.

"That's not good enough," Gordon shot back, intending to continue. However, his verbal trek was interrupted.

"Commissioner!"

Through his glasses, the disillusioned commissioner looked up, eyes falling on Detective Lyndelle, who was hobbling over to him on a set of crutches. She briefly looked embarrassed as he raised his brow at her. To save her the trouble of coming to him, he walked over to her, lips settling into a frown.

"I thought I told you-" he began, taking on a reprimanding tone.

"I know, I know. But I think you know that it'd take a lot more than a severely twisted ankle to deter me," Margaret explained, pushing an obstructive strand of hair from her face.

_'I can't figure it out. Why would someone like Bruce Wayne risk his own hide for anyone else?'_ Gordon thought to himself as he pulled off his glasses and wiped them on his uniform. He inspected the lenses and, satisfied at the improvement of clarity, placed the spectacles back upon his nose. After a moment he adjusted his footing and fixed Lyndelle with a harsh look. She winced. "Why did you let him go, Margaret?"

Her eyebrows shot up at the derisive remark.

"He wouldn't take no for an answer, Commissioner," she told him with an honest voice. "I told him not to go, but he went ahead and did it anyway. And I had more important matters to contend with."

"That's no excuse-"

"I know it's not!" She snapped exasperatedly.

They stood for several minutes in shocked silence.

"…He's gone, Detective." Gordon sighed, unable to hold it in any longer. Lyndelle paused, hand lingering at her cheek as she frowned in the other's direction.

'_What? Gone?' _

"What do you mean, '_gone'_?" She appeared torn between confusion and worry. Surely he didn't mean-

"Witnesses said that they saw the Joker carry Mr. Wayne outside, just as we arrived." He informed sharply, shuffling anxiously as he looked back at the enormous building.

"Oh." She replied lamely, shoulders slumping in loss.

What could she possibly say to that?

'_This __**is**__ my fault…' _Margaret bit her lip and peered at the ground, ashamed.

Gordon stiffened at the woman's words. She peered back up at him, looking curious. Obviously, she hadn't intended to voice this particular inner monologue.

"It's… not your fault, Detective." A weight fell upon her shoulder- Gordon's hand, she realized. It was an act done to comfort her, no doubt; however, the gesticulation did nothing to ease her guilt.

"Don't lie. You were right, Commissioner. If I would have been more-" Gordon was gazing past her.

"Stay." The man spoke with finality, pulling back his hand and suddenly walking towards the drive, where a conglomeration of vehicles had pulled up. Lyndelle adjusted her crutches, hobbling in the opposite direction to see what all of the fuss was about. Upon sight, something in the green-clad brunette sunk.

The Detective pinched the arch of her nose, looking stressed.

"Who authorized this!" Exclaimed Gordon, hands fisting at his sides as he approached the swarm of paparazzi and news teams. "This ground is off limits for investigation!"

In the next moment, the middle-aged man was caught amidst a sea of cameras and microphones and flashing cameras, all of which were shoved right before his face.

"Commissioner Gordon, is it true that the Joker was taking hostages here earlier this evening?"

"Where is Bruce Wayne? Is it true the Joker has him held captive?"

"What's our next step, Commissioner? Is our city going to fall because of one mad man?"

"Why must such a large scale investigation be kept so tightly under wraps? We ought to know if our safety is in jeopardy!"

Gordon growled, furiously pushing through the crowd and waving off all microphones being thrust in his direction. Narrowing his eyes, he discerned a familiar uniform, grabbed the officer by the jacket and tersely yanked him forward, demanding: "I want these people out of here. Now!"

The man nodded acquiescently, rounding up his group of officers.

* * *

His irises stung as his eyelids slowly peeled open, absorbing the intense, vivid ceiling light glaring down upon him. Breathing through his nostrils, his eyelashes fluttered as he glanced dubiously around his surroundings, blinking away the sleep-induced haze from his vision. The brunette turned his head to the side, trying to better assess the area around him, grimacing at the way his muscles screamed in protest at the slight movement. A frown settled upon his lips- the rest of the room was dimly lit. It felt as though he had been placed under an enormous strobe light, or like he was a prisoner of war, a prisoner's whose innards were brutally being excavated for study.

Bruce pushed himself up with a great deal of struggle, hissing at the distinct tightness pulling uncomfortably at his chest. He looked down at himself and froze; a tidal wave of memories assaulted him all at once. The sensitive flesh, the patch just left and slightly below his pectoral muscles, had been neatly stitched together- the circumference surrounding the tattered skin was heavily bruised and swollen. The wound was an ugly one; it could've used some more cleaning up. He wouldn't have been surprised if it was already infected. If anything, that explained the consistent grogginess and the nausea in his stomach. That, and the nearly unbearable pain resonating from the area.

"_Never bring a, ah… knife to a gunfight, Batsy…"_

The Joker had stabbed Bruce.

"_What would possibly make you think … that I could wait longer?"_

And now his worst enemy knew his identity.

How could he get out of this situation? His alternate identity was the key to his ruse- if he didn't have that… then everything he'd worked so hard to achieve would crumble_._

A gun fired somewhere nearby, followed by the sound of a door creaking open. Bruce intently observed as a golden sliver of light seeped from the halo of darkness that encompassed the room. Someone slipped in: a broad-shouldered figure with an almost drunken gate to his step. The door slipped shut; the closer the person approached, the more Bruce was able to make out the nebulous shape of their face. The unnaturally white hue was a dead giveaway.

The Joker wiped his fingers upon the lavender surface of his trench coat with distaste- his fingertips left streaks of red upon the fabric.

"Awake, and so soon?" Doled the clown in an amused voice. Of course, he was only joking- the man had been out for quite some time: four hours, to be precise. It was now early morning, around 3:00 AM, and the Joker had been eagerly awaiting his counterpart's awakening.

"Fuck you." Bruce spat in an ireful tone.

At the curse, the Joker's brows creased.

"So _defensive_," muttered the harlequin, looking wounded at the others antics. "You should really watch yer, ah… _language_, Batsy. I'm a sensitive guy!"

The childlike criminal began to transcend upon him, approaching with a predatory slowness that was unsettling. As the purple-clad man stepped beside the table, the opalescent light bathed the Joker's ragged face, highlighting the caustic incisions that extended haphazardly beyond his lips, burrowing deep into the hollows of his cheeks. The bottom lip of that cherry red mouth was carefully drawn between the Joker's smallish, yellow-stained teeth, being gnawed on in thought.

"I'm not _Batman_." Bruce denied, pushing himself further away from the other. It was far too late for all of that, to repudiate the information he'd already divulged. And there was no way he could fight the other like this- he was in no state to move, lest he risk re-opening his wound. The both of them knew this very well.

But, damn it, if he _had_ to get up and fight the other in order to escape, he _would_…

"And now yer gonna _lie_ to me? Brucey-" Oh, he liked the sound of that. _Brucey_…. It had a nice ring to it. He especially enjoyed how the other's expression contorted into annoyance at the endearment- Batboy apparently wasn't one for pet names. "I don't think you quite _comprehend_ the… _situation_ that yer in."

Why weren't the Joker's hands hidden behind his lavender gloves?

And why were those bony, graceful digits tracing his collar, leaving a trail of intense heat in their wake?

Bruce slapped the hand away with a displeased snarl, pinning the Joker with a look of disgust.

"Don't touch me. I'm not you're damn pet," he spat, forcing himself to sit up further- he wouldn't take the Joker's crap. He had to get out of here.

"You _see_?" Humming thoughtfully, the Joker rolled his shoulders to loosen his muscles and, much to the Wayne's surprise, climbed atop the table. On top of _him_. With a strength that was surprising, the Joker pinned Bruce's wrists down, straddling the man's hips. The metal surface shook beneath the sudden shift in weight- the small stool beside the bed tipped over with a brilliant collage of sound. Drawing his head close to the shell-shocked face of his nemesis, the harlequin licked his lips hungrily. He had captured Batman. And there was no way in Hell the Harlequin would allow the bat to go and forget it.

"That's where yer _wrong_. Because, under… under _my_ roof? You _are_ my pet. You're **MINE**."

* * *

**Author's Note: **

I am SO sorry for the delay. But I've had so much work to do lately… I'm attending college, despite only being a senior in high school (it's a program our school offers- it's called Post Secondary). I wish I could've made this chapter longer, but I'm completely out of juice. This is the one day that I've been free and I've been working on this continuously for several hours.

No one seems OOC, right? God, I hope not. And grammar? (crawls in a corner)

Thank you so much for all of the feedback from last chapter! I was seriously jumping all over the place. I tried to reply to as many people as possible- to those I didn't get to, this is for you!

Please review! I appreciate it so much- each and every one that I receive keeps me writing!

See you all next chapter!

-IATU


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